


Time Left Today

by gzdacz



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adventure, Child Abuse, Complicated Relationships, European capitals and their assorted cuisine, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Lily earns herself featured character status entirely from beyond the grave, Road Trips, Severitus | Severus Snape is Harry Potter's Parent, Summer after First Year, because Someone has trouble letting go of the past, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:27:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 84,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27655481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gzdacz/pseuds/gzdacz
Summary: When news of the circumstances behind Quirrell's death spreads, Severus Snape finds himself carting an eleven-year-old fugitive across Europe. The further they travel, the less obvious it becomes how Severus can best follow the orders given to him, or if he need do it all.
Relationships: Albus Dumbledore & Severus Snape, Harry Potter & Severus Snape, Lily Evans Potter & Severus Snape, Lily Evans Potter/Severus Snape
Comments: 387
Kudos: 453
Collections: Qualis Ficta





	1. Prologue: Hogwarts to Cokeworth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a fun fic with a road trip theme and a few chapters at most, but that didn't happen, did it? I am close to being done with the writing of it now, but the chapter count might go one up or down depending on Factors.  
>   
> Before we begin, here is your itinerary: we will start off slow and introspective, proceed to adventure our way through a number of European countries, and finally go very cute and very angsty--proper angsty. This is your warning.

**Prologue: Hogwarts to Cokeworth**

On Friday, Severus oversaw his final exam. It was the third years, too enmeshed in their new adolescence to care about grades and too young for real ambition; they should all have failed, but the school board would have put up a fuss.

On Saturday, he lunched with the Headmaster, who informed him that Severus was going to take a few days off, he just hadn’t known it until that moment.

‘It’s nearly summer,’ he told Albus. 

‘Exactly,’ Albus told him. ‘There is little left to do but supervise the children, and you’ve done your fair share of that already, Severus. Go today, take a trip, relax—’

The _shut up_ was implied. Perhaps Severus had been a little—vociferous—about the various frustrations of life on the Hogwarts staff. He’d doubled his time spent patrolling the corridors at night, keenly aware of the added incentive to wander poised by the mysterious restriction on the third floor; he’d hoped to run into Quirrell, too, and did at times, all the better for showing him there were always eyes watching. He’d not slept a full night in Merlin knew how long, and then the heat had made the students lose the last threads of their fraying focus, and it had swollen Severus’s legs and shortened his temper, and then, of course, Potter—a whole year of dealing with Potter. Anyone would require a holiday after that.

He didn’t go on Saturday. On Sunday, he pulled an all-nighter, marked the last exam paper around six, then slept through the morning. He packed, he ate, he slept again, a full-night’s drowse that settled him back into some semblance of normality.

On Monday, he strolled through the castle, soaking in the chill held snug between the thick walls. He considered going outside, but knew he wouldn’t be able to enjoy the sun in full view of the student body. He told Minerva that he was leaving and let Madame Pomfrey know where to find him in case of emergencies.

He ran into Potter, too, and his brain stuttered into silence for a beat as he stumbled right back into uncanny valley. He’d been seeing his face around the castle for months now, but every time felt like the first: he’d been secretly hoping for Lily and bitterly anticipating James, and the boy was a startling neither. Close enough to each that he was unmistakeable, distinct enough that he satisfied neither expectation and only gave Severus an odd thrill of unease. But on Monday, he was going on holiday and he’d slept a full night, so he ordered Potter and his entourage to go play outside in a manner that, for him, verged on pleasant. A good deed for a good day.

On Monday afternoon, he went home.

Spinner’s End was not a happy place. Spinner’s End was the murky sediment on the bottom of a bottle. It was the old can of beans shoved to the back of a cabinet. It was the thing that remained when everything else went away, and it stood unchanged: just as dusty, just as damaged, the wardrobe creaking with woodworms, the mattresses stained and caving, the same smell of old wall and desiccated paint. Severus wasn’t in the business of looking for happy. He wanted, at most, peace, and Spinner’s End was that: unexpectedly, perversely, always.

For three days, he read, he sketched idly formless things in whimsical purple ink, he looked through old photographs and his mother’s recipe journals, and he had coffee on the porch the way his father used to, bundled up in a fleece blanket and trying to spot the morning rats among the bins at number eight. He didn’t think about anything. It was, he imagined, the sort of peace the dead felt.

On Thursday, he came back to Hogwarts refreshed.

‘So,’ Albus greeted him, ‘a few things.’

And so, it was revealed to a refreshed Severus that the coward idiot Quirrell, apparently possessed by the Dark Lord, had attempted to—yes, _the Dark Lord_ —had attempted to steal away the Philosopher’s Stone and was intercepted by Potter—yes, _Potter_ —Potter, who then promptly killed him— _killed—_ and fell into a coma.

‘ _A coma_?’ Severus repeated, because he didn’t feel particularly ready to touch on anything else.

‘Fortunately, it was not terribly serious. He woke up yesterday and he is feeling much stronger. He was well enough, in fact, that he was allowed a visit by Amelia Bones just this morning.’

‘Why was Amelia Bones here?’

‘Well, I removed Quirrell’s body into the Forbidden Forest so the acromantulas might take care of it, hoping to keep the whole affair under wraps. You see, without a body, there should be no need for the Ministry to become involved. Unfortunately, some students ventured out for a night-time adventure of their own and found the corpse; clearly, my dear Severus, your insistence on patrolling the corridors after hours was entirely appropriate—’

‘She was here to interrogate Potter?’

‘She was,’ Albus answered leisurely. ‘I let Harry know that although he has done nothing wrong in defending himself, certain details of the event should remain between us.’

‘The Dark Lord.’

‘Yes. I do not think many will readily believe such a tale—I encouraged Harry to say he’d injured Professor Quirrell, but lost consciousness before he saw what happened to him. An easy thing to imagine, that some dark being in the forest had taken revenge on the man when, weakened, he returned for more unicorn blood, and that it burnt his face clear off—to believe a boy did so with his bare hands is a significantly harder feat.’

‘Bones bought it, then?’

Albus smiled. ‘I underestimated Harry’s honesty. In the end, he would not exonerate himself, nor would he hide the truth of Voldemort’s survival from the world. He told everything as it transpired.’

He pushed a copy of the morning’s Prophet across the desk. Severus flipped it over with controlled anger, not wanting to earn himself chastisement but wanting very much to let the Headmaster know he was pissed. ‘I cannot believe—’

The headline read, _Harry Potter Spells Demise for the Wizarding World? Juvenile Murderer Claims You-Know-Who’s Return._

‘As you can imagine, this complicates the situation,’ Albus said calmly.

‘I—Headmaster, this is—surely they are not going to press charges? No matter what nonsense the child spews and whether they believe it, they cannot claim that he wilfully murdered an adult wizard—’

‘I think they would find that a hard position to defend,’ Albus admitted, ‘though not impossible if we consider the circumstances. A supernaturally gifted Harry Potter—you can well imagine how that narrative can develop? Harry’s guilt is beside the point here. I worry that Cornelius is prone to following public opinion, and in this case, he might follow it straight into disaster. The Prophet is now wondering whether a boy who is able to kill a grown man with his bare hands needs special handling; and if that boy is telling tales that cannot be true, well. I have already heard rumours from our friends at the Ministry that Cornelius wants to take him into custody. He might not know of the prophecy as we do, and he might not fear Voldemort’s return, but he is clever enough to recognize Harry as an asset. And he is an asset we cannot afford to lose, Severus.’

Severus had been having a perfectly pleasant holiday. This was a cosmic reminder never to do such a thing again.

‘Can’t you bring them the stone?’ he tried, dry-throated. ‘Surely that counts as evidence of something—’

‘Ah, well,’ Albus sighed, with good humour. ‘I’m afraid I helped the Flammels destroy the stone yesterday morning.’

Severus stood up.

‘Is this funny to you?’ he spat, knowing immediately he was crossing a line but helpless against it. ‘Is this a joke to you, Headmaster?’

‘It is not. It is an extremely unfortunate situation for which I bear a great deal of responsibility, and I am not confident which way forward is best. But for the sake of my old nerves, I prefer to find some humour in it. Will you allow me that?’

Severus crossed his arms over his chest, as if to shield himself from the rebuttal. ‘Of course,’ he replied smoothly. Albus’s forehead creased: he didn’t like feeling like Severus was managing him. Good.

‘Let’s not argue, Severus,’ he said. ‘Not now.’

‘As you wish.’

‘Severus.’

Severus said nothing. For a moment, they remained in this silence, Severus pulled straight as a rod, Albus hunched over his own frustration. Then, the tension began to seep away. They’d reached this quiet impasse before, over and again, and had never found a way to resolve it.

‘What do you need me to do?’ Severus asked finally.

Albus considered him. He knocked twice on the desk with a long finger, as if to reassure himself of what he was about to say before saying it.

‘I need you to take him and run,’ he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes on canon:  
> Severus's backstory remains largely consistent with canon, but since I'm doing a lot of gap-filling, it will veer off here and there, especially with regards to Lily. I am also playing fast and loose with how magic works, so do expect some differences there.
> 
> Thank you for reading. I hope you'll tune back in for the first chapter on Wednesday :)


	2. One: Newhaven to Paris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Around lunchtime, they changed at King’s Cross for a train to Brighton, then changed in Brighton for a bus to Newhaven, and finally snuck on board the first ferry out to France, concealed under Potter’s Invisibility Cloak. ___  
>   
> The journey begins!

**One: Newhaven to Paris**

They had set out in the early morning, taken a carriage to Hogsmeade, the Floo to London, another Floo to Manchester and then a train back south, hoping to confuse anyone who might wish to guess at their destination. Around lunchtime, they changed at King’s Cross for a train to Brighton, then changed in Brighton for a bus to Newhaven, and finally snuck on board the first ferry out to France, concealed under Potter’s Invisibility Cloak.

The plan had been conveyed to Severus at half six that morning over his eggs, and thus he’d had little time to point out to Dumbledore that bestowing a powerful magical artefact on an eleven-year-old was ill-informed at best. Also, it rendered Severus’s numerous attempts to catch the brat out after curfew _a_ _complete bloody waste of time,_ and if the Headmaster thought that was funny, well then he had another thing—anyway, all that would have to wait. He’d been given a two-way mirror to report back, pulled straight out of the Dumbledores’ family vault and ancient enough that its magical trace was largely unrecognizable to the modern Auror. If Severus used it exclusively to preach about appropriate Christmas presents for eleven-year-olds, perhaps that would teach Albus a lesson about gift-giving.

Despite the warm weather, the wind up on deck was vicious. Men and women took photographs of each other against the black waves, laughing as hair blew over their faces, as they lost scarves, chased hats, shouted after children who leaned too far out over the railing. Potter, mercifully, had mostly abstained from movement, perched like a chicken on the ugly green bench, his bare ankles textured with goosebumps where they touched the cold metal. His shoes were scuffed. Severus enjoyed that: it gave him something to look at when he didn’t want to see the boy’s face.

Newhaven to Dieppe, Severus recited in his mind. Dieppe to Paris. At the next gust of wind, his ears gave a dull throb, and his hands itched with the impulse to reach for his wand and cast an air-bubble spell. The last time he’d performed magic had been in Hogsmeade, when he _Evanesco_ ’d some of the Floo powder Potter had spilled on the floor. He had not gone without magic for more than a few hours at a time, not in years, and his hands felt odd with it, his fingers stiff, his spine tingly. He would have to get used to it: with the underage magic tracker on Potter, they could not risk performing spells around him, not in Britain and not in any nation signed to relay tracking data to allies under the International Confederation of Wizards’ treaty of ’77. And Severus should know: he had spent the whole morning pretending he had heard about it before.

‘Officially, there is an investigation, but not yet an order to take Harry into Ministry custody,’ Albus had told him, ‘but we have to work under the assumption that this will change, and that they are already monitoring his movements off the record. You must get him to a country that was not part of the treaty and until you do, you will have to travel entirely through muggle means.’

‘Which country, then?’ Severus hadn’t wanted to seem like he knew nothing, so he’d tried, ‘Russia?’

‘Finland haven’t signed, either. I’ve an old friend there who can take you in for a little while as I work on rebalancing the situation at home. I would not ask this of you if I didn’t think it was necessary, Severus—I hate to take your summer away from you, but there are few I can trust with this, and none others available who are as accustomed to the muggle world as you are.’

Right. _You are accustomed_ _to the muggle world_ sounded better, he supposed, than _your life is empty anyway._

He wondered about that sometimes. Granted, some people on either side of the trenches fooled themselves with optimism and lived lives as if all threat had dissipated; but then there were those like the Weasleys, like the Malfoys, those who had chivvied their lives along even _during_ the war, spewing offspring, climbing up Ministry ranks, marrying and buying houses and writing books—Severus couldn’t imagine it. Were they able to devote true care, true attention to these insignificant schemes of daily life, knowing their duty lay elsewhere, knowing that all of it was temporary, flimsy, a distraction?

He thought maybe they were mentally limited. Perhaps they were unable to feel, daily, the weight, the scope of the war effort, of the many possible futures approaching, of their own tiny part in the labyrinthine interlocking of sacrifices. Like children or like drunks, they saw only the world immediately available to them, and acted upon their plot of land in blissful ignorance of the village standing in flames.

Lily had married and had a child during the war, too, but that was different. Her attentions were precisely where they needed to be, and it was only unlucky she had chosen a marriage to James Potter as the means to accomplish the rise in rank she’d required. And the child, well, the child Severus couldn’t explain, but he imagined she’d been compelled toward it by some momentary lapse in higher-brain function. She hadn’t wanted children when she was at Hogwarts; if she’d fallen prey to hormones or societal pressure, Severus was hardly going to condemn her for it.

Newhaven to Dieppe, Dieppe to Paris, Paris to Brussels. Brussels to Amsterdam, Amsterdam to Berlin, Berlin to Stockholm, Stockholm to Helsinki. Avoiding borders where visas might be checked, avoiding magical communities where spells would be cast, no Apparition, no Floo network, no Glamours, just the two of them, a cloak and a mirror. The only time Severus had left the country had been for a Potions conference in the heart of the Slovakian mountainside, and he’d used a Portkey to get there. He’d stayed buried in laboratories capped with tonnes of rock, surrounded by fumes from experimental brews and the chatters of people with better social skills, and he had ventured outside only once, on a walk around the forest, during which he’d promptly lost his way. They’d had to send out a search party; he’d been twenty-four and had seen more death than he knew what to do with, and still, it had been one of the most horrifying experiences of his life.

Potter stood by the railing now, rocking back and forth on the heels of his feet as he pushed and pulled against the bars. Severus hadn’t noticed when he’d moved. Wind batted the boy’s shirt against his side, hiding and revealing the protrusions of his spine, stark against skin.

He had to act like he knew what he was doing. Otherwise, the brat would realise and likely use the opportunity to strike out on his own. He had been quietly compliant so far, probably mulling over his sorry circumstances, maybe sulking over having to spend the summer with a teacher or struck dumb with trauma—whichever it was, Severus was unlikely to find out, since the boy did not wish to speak with him, and he hardly wished to speak with the boy.

The relentless light of summer had dipped by the time they slunk under the cloak and followed the trail of cars onto solid land. The air in Dieppe was thin, soaked in salt and slow-drying sweat. South of the port, Severus saw a stretch of beaches, bracketed by dull social housing and a looming cliffside.

Most of the families on board would now go on south, to populate Mediterranean shores that held little wind, but some might stay in Normandy and risk the rains for the history or the views or the seashells. He tried to imagine these families and failed. He remembered enjoying the seaside as a child, but those memories had frayed into idealised stills that had little to do with reality: heat but no sunburn, jumping over waves but never falling, his mother’s smile but not a single yelling match.

He’d gone with Lily, once. He remembered nothing except the time they’d been made to go buy ice lollies with Petunia. She’d made him cry. He didn’t remember how.

He wondered sometimes what she’d told the boy about Lily. They’d made up in the end, he knew, when they got older; it would have been the idealised version of Lily then, Lily the Saint, Lily the Mother Theresa. The boy hadn’t appeared to recognize him, those first days at Hogwarts, so Severus supposed Petunia hadn’t mentioned him, and thank Merlin for that: he’d fretted over it for months, fearing she would have painted a horrid picture, fearing more that she would have told the truth. Dirty little Severus; people tended toward fair in their depictions of those alive and hagiographic when speaking of the dead.

It was precisely why he refused to let go of every last upset, every resentment he’d harboured for her. He needed to preserve the entire spectrum of his feelings about Lily if he wanted to keep her alive.

A minibus drove them to Gare de Dieppe, a station in whitewashed stone that could have been the last stop before the end of the world. Severus spent ten minutes trying to communicate his needs to the woman selling tickets. Fortunately, the boy had gone to the bathroom and missed him at his most inept.

The train to Paris smelled of cigarette smoke. From the magically enlarged pockets in his summer coat, sown in cheap muggle fabric and terribly uncomfortable, Severus pulled out the sandwiches provided by the Hogwarts elves. The boy had half of the peanut butter before pushing the rest away; Severus informed him in no uncertain terms he would be eating exactly what he was given, when he was given it.

‘Fine,’ the boy said sullenly, and had a ham sandwich, and that was the end of that conversation.

Gare de Lyon was lit up by dozens of lights, harsh in the breaking night, but further out, the river and the townhouses swam in darkness. A woman at the information point gave Severus instructions on how to get to the nearest hostel that would take them: it was a lot of turns and street names he couldn’t have pronounced, and he retained none of it. Fortunately, she’d given him an out-of-scale tourist map, too, with the route drawn in soft pencil.

They crossed the bridge, turned too early and had to retrace their steps. Potter was unsteady on his feet, so unbalanced with exhaustion Severus doubted he could tell left from right, and thus unlikely to muster the awareness to judge him. Another turn by a large McDonald’s blinking a blinding light. Severus wanted badly to sleep, and go back home, and summon Albus on his stupid two-way mirror so _he_ could figure out the way. Was he holding the map upside down? No, the river was north now, they were south.

A street musician strung along a love song on the corner, coins glinting silver in the worn hat at his feet. They drew to a halt, compelled separately yet at once, and when Severus’s brain caught up and he lifted his eyes, he saw the train station before him again and thought he was going to scream. How on Earth did they end up back here? A community of _clochards_ had set up tents and shacks beneath the heavy railway arch; the two of them might well have to join them.

Potter twisted to reach into his knapsack, a rugged thing that should long ago have found its way to a bin. He pulled out a sack of coins. He felt around for a while until he fished out one smaller and lighter than the rest; Severus recognised it as a muggle twenty pence.

‘If that was at all unclear, we’re in France, Potter,’ he said, amused. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve remembered to bring your francs along.’

Potter did not deign to look at him. ‘But he can exchange it, can’t he? Sir. You can go to a—to this place, and they exchange money from pounds to francs and stuff. Right?’

‘And you think currency exchange are going to buy a twenty pence coin from him?’

The boy bit his lip. ‘No?’ he guessed.

‘No.’

‘Oh. I don’t have any more.’

He didn’t put the money away but lingered over it, thrown and embarrassed. It made Severus want to needle him more. He restrained himself: he was in no mood to deal with tears.

He pulled out his wallet, which Albus had equipped prior to their departure with bills Severus had never so much as seen before, and located the pocket labelled with a tiny French flag.

Potter startled when the ten francs were pushed into his hand, but he recovered quickly and balled his fingers around the coin. When he opened his palm again, it glistened with sweat in the low light from the station.

The light. It was different, Severus realised. The lights of Gare de Lyon had been a duller hue, and the arches had looked not at all like these here—

He consulted the map. There was indeed another train station within walking distance from Gare de Lyon; they were going roughly the right way and weren’t far off now from the hostel; he was not completely hopeless and would not be spending the night sleeping under a bridge.

The boy had run off to put the money into the guitarist’s hat. His cheeks were uncharacteristically red when he returned. Had he been pale before?

‘I’ll pay you back, sir,’ he vowed solemnly. ‘Do you know how much that was in wizard money?’

‘Trust me, Potter, I would not offer you my own money to throw away on street-corner entertainers. All our expenses are being covered by the Headmaster’s funds. Now, let’s go, and pick up your pace, I’d really like to get to a bed before midnight.’

The boy obeyed, though Severus caught him throwing a longing glance over his shoulder, just as the last of the guitar notes were carried off into the evening breeze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was honestly astonished at how many of you enjoyed the first chapter! I hope you stick around till the end of this adventure :)
> 
> A note about tags: When I posted the prologue, I completely forgot to tag for Child Abuse. This has now been added. Nothing terribly graphic here or widely different from canon, but if this might be a trigger for you, please tread carefully.
> 
> A note about geography: I admit to not taking a whole lot of road trips across Europe in the early 90s, so as much as I strive for authenticity, I will inevitably get things wrong. If you have personal experience in the matter, I would love to hear about that in the comments!
> 
> Tune back in on Saturday for Harry's POV in Chapter Two: Paris to Brussels.


	3. Two: Paris to Brussels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He would like to go on a bus tour. It sounded like fun. They must have had those in London, too, not just in Paris; he imagined telling the Dursleys about it and that made him feel worse, not because they would never say yes, but because he had no idea when he’d see them, or anyone, again. ___

**Two: Paris to Brussels**

Harry woke up knowing something was wrong.

To be fair, that was every morning since they’d gone after the stone. Every morning, the same thing was wrong and it wasn’t a thing that could get better.

But now, he was in the wrong place, surrounded by the wrong people, their breaths deeper, their snores headier, their shuffles more careful. The sheets in Gryffindor Tower were a deep burgundy that melted against Harry’s cheek, and these ones here a rough white that smelled like detergent, and not even the one Aunt Petunia used.

They were also wet.

Harry shot up, head banging against the ceiling, short of time to take stock as stock took _him_ : right, he had killed Quirrell, Quirrell was dead, he was a murderer, they had to send him away, he was in Paris, in a hostel where the beds were perched on top of each other in threes. Harry’s berth sat at the very top. The morning light fell through the crease in the ugly green curtain. Far below, people moved: a man folded his pyjamas, a woman shuffled out of her slippers to examine a reddened toe.

Harry shifted forward to hang his head down and peak into Snape’s bed, but the motion made his pyjama bottoms slide from where they’d stuck to his thigh, and he at once remembered, with a full-body shiver, that his sheets were _wet._ He ducked back behind the curtain, his throat a burn of mortification. This hadn’t happened in, well, forever, except that one time a few days ago in the hospital wing, but that had been different because he’d only just woken up from the coma and Madame Pomfrey had said it was just his body getting used to being awake again, nothing to worry about, and she’d spelled the sheets clean and brought him a new gown, and there’d been no fuss about it at all. But now she wasn’t here, and even if Harry had known the right spells, Snape had his wand: it was probably in his coat, and Harry couldn’t get to his coat without everyone seeing the stain on his pyjamas, and anyway he couldn’t cast spells or the wizard police would come find him—

He breathed through his nose and out again to try and calm down, but that only made him _smell it more_ , and even though his stomach caved empty, acid climbed to his mouth until tears pushed through scrunched eyelids. This was like a nightmare. He’d thought it had been awful, those times it had happened back in Privet Drive, but at least then he could hope to sneak into the stairway wardrobe where the fresh sheets were stored, and strip the bed and do laundry before anyone realised. Here, he didn’t know where fresh sheets were stored, or where the washing machine was, and all those people would find out, not to mention _Snape—_

The door opened, and Snape was there, back from the bathroom with a towel slung over his shoulder and a freshly shaved face, already cross about life in general. He’d cut himself just below the ear, too, the blood fresh and blooming.

Harry pulled the curtain all the way closed, but there was still a gap between the edge of the fabric and the wall where the rail didn’t reach. He had only just covered his legs with the quilt when the curtain was shoved back and Snape’s face appeared on the other side, hovering above the topmost rung of the ladder.

‘I’m not letting you sleep anymore, Potter, so don’t bother trying to hide,’ he said. ‘Get dressed and pack your things, we’re leaving right after breakfast—what’s that smell?’

Harry said nothing. He was too focused on not crying to form sentences.

Snape was silent for a minute, and though Harry didn’t dare look at him, he could feel his gaze sweeping up and down the bed, snagging and hanging on the quilt bunched up suspiciously around his hips.

‘Well,’ Snape cleared his throat. ‘Get dressed. There’s not much of a queue for the bathroom yet, so you can go shower if you hurry up.’

‘What—what should I do with the sheets?’ Harry whispered. ‘Do you know if there’s, like, a laundry room or—’

‘Leave them. Meet me downstairs at reception when you’re dressed.’

Harry did as he was told, moving entirely on autopilot. By all laws of nature, he should be dead right now, he thought, he shouldn’t have lived through this. It was strange to carry on with the day; he felt a little like he had after waking up from the coma, like he had stopped spinning even as the Earth carried on. As he shoved his wet pyjama bottoms into the plastic bag he’d once used for dirty socks, he wondered if comparing the two, the day he’d killed a human being with this day now, whether it made him a horrible person. Probably it did.

Snape was speaking with the lady at reception when Harry bounded down the stairs. It was all hush-hush and he couldn’t make out any of it from where he’d perched on the armrest of the sofa, but the lady threw him a look of pity at some point and he immediately guessed what they were talking about. He quickly looked down at the plexiglass table, pretending like he was super interested in the leaflets about bus tours. He would like to go on a bus tour. It sounded like fun. They must have had those in London, too, not just in Paris; he imagined telling the Dursleys about it and that made him feel worse, not because they would never say yes, but because he had no idea when he’d see them, or anyone, again.

‘Have you got your things?’ Snape snapped at him from across the room. ‘Well?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Harry muttered, wishing Snape would speak a little quieter: everyone else in the lobby had turned their heads to see.

As he followed Snape through the glass door to the bar, he saw the reception lady fetch a key and hurry upstairs. Was she going to change his sheets? He hated the thought so much he had to push his fingers into his lowest rib hard enough to hurt, just to stop thinking it.

In the bar, there was a system for how you got breakfast, which everyone knew but Harry couldn’t follow. He understood quickly that the long table toward the back of the room was where you had to go and serve yourself, but there was an order to it yet no queue, and people seemed to know exactly what they were and weren’t allowed to take even though it didn’t say anywhere. Snape soon got impatient with him and barked at Harry to get on with it, which wasn’t helpful at all because then Harry stopped being able to see the food, too taken with the need to hurry, and so he ended up snatching a croissant and a napkin, and rushing to their table before anyone could tell him he’d done it wrong.

Snape brought him a plate and a butterknife, looking at Harry like he was an animal.

‘Is that all you’re having? If you think you’ll be getting food when you start complaining you’re hungry in an hour, then you have deeply misjudged your circumstances.’

Harry shrugged. He wanted to point out he hadn’t wanted to choose in the first place because he knew he’d probably do it wrong, but Snape had insisted, so it was hardly Harry’s fault—and he might have found the courage to do so, back at Hogwarts where Snape was just one teacher and Harry one student. Here, though, they were alone, and if Snape randomly decided he’d had enough of Harry, there was little telling what he might do. Harry didn’t _think_ Snape would just up and leave him alone in a foreign country, but once the idea had struck him, it had proven unshakeable: he could just see himself, out there on the street, lost, penniless, unable to ask for help because the people who spoke English here spoke it in a way he struggled to understand, and he didn’t know a word of French.

‘At least get some juice,’ Snape spat. ‘Or jam, you do realize this is plain? Merlin forbid you get scurvy on top of everything else I have to deal with.’

An old man that smelled funny gave Harry an odd look when he zagged past him, but he managed to fetch the juice in record time. He didn’t bring back jam or any such thing: he wanted to keep some satisfaction to himself. As planned, Snape looked annoyed at Harry’s steadfast glare over his _plain_ croissant; it was playing with fire, but Harry figured he wasn’t going to get abandoned over pastry, and it was tasty like this anyway, if a little dry.

They walked to a train station then. It might have been the same as the one they’d been at last night, but Harry wasn’t sure: the sights and smells and sounds of the journey were all tangled up in his mind. He followed Snape in a jog, his knapsack bobbing up and down on his shoulders until it hurt, from one platform to the next, under ground and up again, onto a train and into one compartment and another, and he saw the men and women lugging suitcases and bags, and heard the sounds their mouths made and the way their laughs rang, but he didn’t _understand._ It was an odd thing, because there was little to understand, really: these people were travelling and the two of them were travelling, and the train station was quite a bit like King’s Cross and the train was just a train, only marked up in a different language. But something key was missing. Harry felt as though he was watching everything from behind a glass barrier, his body moving of its own volition. Some other Harry, maybe, had taken hold of it.

Every time Snape got up to go to the toilet or to walk up and down the corridor like a caged bear, this other Harry snuck bites of the emergency biscuits he’d packed during that last frantic morning at Hogwarts. The other Harry led his body off the train, and up streets wider than any he’d seen in his life. He didn’t know where they were and he would have felt stupid to ask, so he walked after Snape in perfect silence, staring at his own feet, until the roads turned cobbled, and signs set out in the storefronts began advertising beer and waffles in English.

Unexpectedly, Snape bought them chips with mayonnaise from a little window painted yellow. He sat his own portion down on a bench, to use as a weight for keeping his map flat against the wind. Harry thought about helping him with it but realised it would only earn him a mean comment; anyway, Snape seemed to know about this travelling stuff, and Harry wasn’t sure he had much to contribute. The map was a web of colourful curves and tiny abbreviations with too many vowels and strange roofs over some of them. Harry had his chips instead.

They were good, the chips, but settled heavy in his stomach, already lined with the biscuits, so the venture was slow-going. He was determined to finish, though: Snape had told him explicitly he expected Harry to eat ‘whatever you are given, _when_ you are given it, Potter,’ and Harry already felt pretty bad about his life without someone yelling at him, thank you very much.

By the time Snape led him to another hostel-place, this one with a winding stairway and fans scattered around wide windowsills, Harry had indeed vanquished the chips and had begun to regret it, too, as they stirred in his stomach and stirred again.

After they got to the room, all cheap wood and fluttering ribbons tied to their fans, Harry sat, then stood, then ran to the bathroom and promptly expunged the biscuits and the chips and the mayo, all in one.

‘I will return in a few hours,’ Snape told him once Harry had sat back on the bed: they had bunk beds here, too, and Snape had insisted on Harry taking the top one even though gravity compelled his twisting bowels to stay near the ground. ‘The man at reception speaks English, so go to him if you have to, but otherwise I expect you to stay put. Are you able to sit still for that long or will I need to tie you up?’

Harry hoped Snape wasn’t serious, but he’d been ready to believe the man wanted him dead not a week ago. Clearly, he wasn’t a good Snape interpreter. Anyway, he had no intention whatsoever of moving anywhere, ever again.

He suddenly didn’t want Snape to go, either. It was stupid, because Snape made him nervous and self-conscious and annoyed. But it wasn’t stupid, because Harry _slightly_ preferred feeling nervous and self-conscious and annoyed to being abandoned in the middle of a city he didn’t even know the name of, for reasons he didn’t understand and with no way of knowing if Snape would even come back. Especially now that he was ill.

‘Drink your water,’ Snape told him in lieu of a goodbye, and then took himself out of the room, leaving Harry alone in the humming silence of electric fans and the distant tourist bustle outside.

After a minute, Harry slid to the floor, arms wrapped protectively around his stomach, and crawled to his knapsack: he was being a little dramatic, he knew, but sometimes he liked feeling sorrier for himself than he had any right to, when he was alone with no one there to see.

Dumbledore had told him to pack only the essentials and nothing magical. His wand and invisibility cloak were with Snape, Hedwig was at Hagrid’s, even his chocolate frogs had been left in his trunk in Gryffindor Tower. But the album Hagrid had gifted him, back when Harry was still in the hospital wing and before he’d been declared a fugitive, that album Harry had wrapped in an old sweater and concealed at the bottom of the knapsack. The photographs moved, but Dumbledore had said that just having a wand or a cloak near him didn’t mean he could be tracked, so surely that was okay; and Harry would just keep it away from any muggles.

He had never seen pictures of his parents before he’d got the album, but by now he’d gone through it so many times that he could imagine them in all their detail when he closed his eyes.

He brought the album back to his bed, and ran his fingers against the pages’ grain, and smiled at his mum’s smile, and felt even more deserted than before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had a bit of time and made a good advance on editing, so I figured, why not give you an advance, too -- and so, I'm posting two chapters instead of one today. Check the next one out if you wish to know where Severus has gone off to.


	4. Three: Brussels to Ghent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It was something Severus was beginning to understand: the simple structure of a travel itinerary concealed pockets of unforeseen yet unavoidable complexities, detours and obstacles and children getting sick all over themselves because Potter had to use any opportunity to be a nuisance. ___

**Three: Brussels to Ghent**

Newhaven to Dieppe. Dieppe to Paris. Paris to Brussels.

Half hour by train to get from Brussels to Gent-Sint-Pieters station, drowning in bicycles and heat. A ten-minute walk to Citadelpark, where in the shadow of sycamores lay three grottos children liked to play in, and from there, through the coldest part of the stone wall onto Vervelendlei, the magical river district of Ghent.

It was something Severus was beginning to understand: the simple structure of a travel itinerary concealed pockets of unforeseen yet unavoidable complexities, detours and obstacles and children getting sick all over themselves because Potter had to use any opportunity to be a nuisance. What did one _do_ with sick children, other than send them up to the hospital wing?

When he held his hand against the grotto wall, he felt a tremble go through his whole frame: this here was ancient magic, untraceable and unvanquishable, tied firmly to its land and the waters running beneath it, possible to harness when creating a secret passage but impossible to fully control. Wizarding enclaves cropped up near these naturally-occurring magical footholds, many dating back to before the time wizards had the skills to craft a secret safe spot from the ground up; but they were whimsical and unstable things, and Severus saw this was true about Vervelendlei at once.

Medieval house fronts rose on either side of the narrow river, painted brightly and fluttery with motion: owls flew from sill to sill, flowerpots knocked against one another as they fought for a place in the shade, window shutters flapped together as if in laughter. It was entirely possible, when one focused on his immediate surroundings, to believe that the broomstick sale shielded only the Apothecary storefront behind it. But when Severus lengthened his gaze, he easily saw through them both into another reality entirely: one where the riverside held grass and sparse industrial buildings, storage units and faded signs letting a passing muggle know they had reached the city’s limits.

Once he’d seen through to the other side, he couldn’t unsee it. He tried to focus his gaze on the little stone bridge as he crossed it, on the bar gurgling up sweaty passers-by eager for a momentary respite from the sun, on the group of young witches that passed him; but all he saw was that underlayer, the bleakness of it, and it made the whole of the merry street seem like a pitiful façade.

Brussels to Ghent. Back to Brussels again for Potter. Then onto Amsterdam tomorrow. Amsterdam to Berlin, Berlin to Stockholm, Stockholm to Helsinki.

Albus had instructed him to seek out a sweets shop on the west bank of the river. Severus spotted it easily: it sported a curlicued sign reading _Confiserie_ and a display so colourfully saccharine, it made him feel sick too.

He swung the door open.

Secreted among mountains of nougat and golden-wrapped chocolate was a young woman, dressed as a sailor and hunched over a thick volume that looked worn from reading, ignorant to Severus’s presence until he announced himself with a _Goedemorgen,_ hastily learnt from a store front he’d passed on the way here.

The girl startled upward, then smiled at him and said something that didn’t sound at all Flemish but wasn’t English either. The confusion must have shown on his face, because she strolled right into,

‘English, yes?’ like he held no secrets from her at all.

‘Please,’ he said, trying and failing not to feel embarrassed.

‘I hear your horrible accent, so I thought French,’ she said, in a horrible accent. ‘How can I help?’

‘I’m here to see Mr Lieven Hetzel.’

Immediately, the girl lost interest. ‘Upstairs,’ she said, pointing with her pinkie, eyes back on her reading.

Severus followed the pinkie to the stairway, then upward as it winded oddly against the back wall, cramped in the tight space until it spilled into a narrow room overlooking the street. There, by a desk dwarfed beneath a typewriter in pink copper, sat a bearded man Severus didn’t know but supposed Lieven Hetzel, and next to him, Albus.

A wave of sickening relief rolled through him.

‘Ah, Severus,’ Albus said, rising to his feet but holding onto his gold-rimmed teacup. As if he’d earned it, as if he’d gone through some ordeal on par with Severus’s day, as if he hadn’t leisurely Apparated here a quarter of an hour ago. ‘A sight for sore eyes. Please, meet my good friend Lieven. We have him to thank for this opportunity to converse in peace, of course. He is one of the kindest men I know.’

Hetzel seemed entirely underwhelmed by the praise, but stood as he shook Severus’s hand. Then, he caught his eye and asked, in a rough voice that cut into vowels, ‘You’re the co-conspirator? Where does he find you people? You want tea, do you?’

Severus wasn’t sure which question he was expected to answer, but before he’d settled on it, Hetzel cut him off again, ‘He firecalls and he says, oh, Lieven, we need your shop for a secret meeting, something about a child, a murderer, a dark lord, corrupt minister, all that, can I give my man the address? So I ask, hang on here, which one is he? The corrupt minister, the child?’

‘The murderer,’ Severus supplied smoothly.

‘At least he’s still got his sense of humour,’ Hetzel addressed Albus. ‘You let him keep that, huh? Good on you. Here, have tea, co-conspirator, he’s got you travelling all over, I hear—sit—I swear, all these plots, always with the plots, all the secrecy and never any rest, and where’s your war, I ask you?’

‘It’s coming,’ Albus assured, his eyes twinkling.

‘Ah, there’s always a war coming,’ Hetzel pushed Severus into a chair. ‘There’s always a war coming, but some of us will die before you ever get your war, won’t we?’

‘I’m afraid your arguments will fall on deaf ears,’ Albus smiled. He was having entirely too much fun for how urgently he had spoken of this blasted tea party when he’d reached out to Severus on his mirror. ‘Severus is nothing if not devoted to the cause.’

‘Devoted to the cause! That’s a thing for the young. Or for them so old, they have nothing better to be doing, eh? Anyone else devoted to the cause is a fanatic,’ he jabbed a finger in Severus’s direction. ‘How old are you?’

‘Thirty-two.’

‘Still young enough. You’ll get over it soon.’

Severus did not want to _get over it_ any more than he wanted to sit here listening to the pair of them throwing jibes at each other, so he turned his sour gaze on Albus and pressed, ‘You said you had news?’

‘Indeed. The good news is that the Ministry does not yet seem to know Harry has left the country. I have managed to convince them he is with his family. The less happy news is that I have been attempting to schedule a meeting with Cornelius to try and come to an understanding outside of a courthouse, but he’s been evasive. It seems someone else may be whispering in his ear.’

Hetzel sighed theatrically. ‘They all get tired of their strings eventually, don’t they? Political puppets?’

Severus ignored him. ‘Who do you suppose it is?’

‘Rumour has it Lucius Malfoy has been particularly close to the Minister lately,’ Albus said to Severus, though his eyes seemed compelled to stray toward Hetzel even as he refused to indulge him. ‘Do you think it possible he might have believed Harry’s tale, and is trying to win back favour with his old master?’

‘No.’ That much, Severus did not doubt. ‘No, to believe so would shatter Lucius’ status quo, and as it stands, there is scarcely anything to believe. But he may have realised the very same thing you’ve told me: that Potter is an asset and that now is the perfect moment to seize him. Whatever way he may be used, for whichever faction, he will help garner power and that is something Lucius is expressly interested in. And if he can act in a way that may be reframed later to suit a narrative of loyalty to the Dark Lord—should there prove to be truth to Potter’s story—all the better.’

Albus nodded slowly. ‘I expect he might attempt to seize guardianship from me, then, and transfer it to an affiliated party, so he may have access to him when he needs it. At the moment, Harry’s aunt and uncle remain guardians in name, but since I was made executor of Lily and James’s will and all outstanding obligations, I have the wizarding law on my side to make any decisions without consulting them.’

‘That’s convenient for you,’ Severus remarked, for once appreciative of Hetzel’s raised eyebrow.

‘Lily suggested it, in fact,’ Albus’s smile was canted. ‘She understood that Harry would grow to be an important part of the war one way or another and believed it vital that he remain under the Order’s protection.’

Severus laughed. ‘She sold her child off to whichever party most closely aligned with her politics. A model mother.’

‘Do not judge her too harshly for making difficult choices in a difficult time.’

‘I will judge her however I please,’ he said, meaning it. Dumbledore might have forgotten, but they’d had that in common, the two of them: she’d always been a fanatic, even if her allegiance travelled down roads Severus hadn’t discovered until later; even if it had been an allegiance, in the end, chiefly to herself and to all she considered hers.

‘Of course, I could help you find out exactly what it is Lucius is planning if I came back to the country and did my job,’ Severus tried, though without much hope.

Albus looked at him like he knew Severus had little hope, like it was an inside joke just between the two of them. The communication of a secret understanding: he offered it up as bait every time, and the fact he did that, that was an inside joke, too—and in the end it didn’t matter, because it always worked.

‘No,’ he said. ‘This battle will play out in newspapers and in courtrooms, and you underestimate me, dear Severus, if you think I would allow Lucius Malfoy to talk over me. No, you are much more needed here. How is Harry, in any case?’

The sailor girl Severus had spoken to downstairs chose that moment to thunder into the room, book tucked under her armpit as she spouted something curt and urgent in Flemish. Hetzel answered her much the same, then turned back to them as he explained in English,

‘My young cousin doesn’t believe it very fair that she doesn’t get to sit in and have tea with us.’

Albus, always the people pleaser, immediately poured her a cup and fussed over her book, too busy recruiting a new follower to mind Severus.

He caught Hetzel’s eye as they waited to have Albus’s limelight back, and an understanding passed quietly through the air.

‘Forgive me, Severus,’ he said finally. ‘What was I—ah yes, of course, how is Harry? You’ve left him in Brussels, I suppose?’

‘Yes. And he is fantastic. He’s already wet the bed and fallen sick today; the child has no need for me, he needs his aunt to come and fuss over him. I am neither a nanny nor a tour guide.’

‘That is concerning.’ At least it had wiped the smile off his face. ‘Though perhaps unsurprising, given the circumstances. And travel can take an additional toll on such a young boy—where are you staying in Brussels? Would it be possible to stay another day or two so he may recover?’

‘No,’ Severus said firmly. ‘The hostel only had the beds available for the night. We’ll go to Amsterdam tomorrow as planned and he’ll have all of the afternoon to rest there—’

‘The _hostel_!’ Hetzel exclaimed. ‘You’re keeping him in a hostel in _Brussels_? The last place for a sick child! Are you really so cheap, Albus, that you’re making your beloved assets bunk up with drifters and university students? I shouldn’t be surprised, after all—’

‘A hostel is indeed not the best place for convalescence,’ Albus spoke over him. ‘Severus, the cost of tourist accommodation does not lie within my expertise, so I hope you realise you should ask for more money if you need it?’

Severus felt red blotches coming up to tease at skin. ‘I don’t need any more of your money,’ he hissed, knowing he was showing his hand, hating that he had to be so obvious.

He saw the shift in Albus’s face: he didn’t know whether to name it pity or disappointment, and couldn’t decide which was worse. ‘Severus, I hope I do not need to say what I wish to say. I imagine you know already and can be mature enough to adjust your outlook accordingly.’

Severus said nothing.

‘My sister owns a place,’ Hetzel spoke up suddenly. ‘Just off Korenlei, in Muggle Ghent. Lovely views of the river, your own kitchen unit, tourists go mad for it. She’s not got anyone staying the next few nights, they’ve cancelled and she’s a lazy ass, she’d be happy if I found someone for it. She won’t charge much if I tell her you’re family friends.’

‘Potter can’t be near anyone with magic,’ Severus shook his head. ‘The tracker spell will be triggered if anyone casts in vicinity.’

‘She’s a, how do you call it—? A squib, that’s it. And it’s Muggle Ghent like I said. There won’t be spells flying about.’

‘I really think it best that we head to Amsterdam,’ Severus argued weakly. He’d seen already the look passed between Hetzel and Albus. ‘They may not be on our tail yet, but that is no reason to grow complacent. They may well be, and soon.’

‘There’s always a war coming,’ Hetzel echoed wistfully. ‘That is what I am saying, Albus. This is what happens to you people.’

‘Would you give Severus the address, please, Lieven,’ Albus said.

One day, Severus thought, he would learn how to say no to him.

‘You have to learn how to say _no_ ,’ Lily had told him once. It had been a summer afternoon, scorched and listless. He’d always hated summers most, because he had to be home; he’d always loved them most, because she had to be home, too.

‘I say _no_ all the time,’ he’d said.

‘Yes, but you need to learn to say a _no_ that actually means _no_. Your _no_ usually just means, not until you pester me about it for two more seconds.’

‘Maybe it’s the rest of the world that needs to learn to take my _no_ for what it is.’

She’d laughed, pointing at her own chest. ‘Am I the rest of the world?’

Yes, Severus thought to himself now as he followed the sailor girl back down the winding stairway, Korenlei address clutched in his hand. That was exactly what she had been.

He opened the door.

‘Hey,’ Sailor Girl said. ‘Do you want some _neuzekes_?’

She was pointing to the little hill of cone-shaped jellies, each a tear of deep purple.

‘We have different ones, but these here, they’re just like muggle candy,’ she said. ‘No magic, so you can take them to Korenlei no problem.’

Lily had liked jelly.

‘I’m fine,’ he said. Sailor Girl answered with what he supposed was Flemish for goodbye.

It sounded like her name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sailor Girl: Hey, do you want to take some sweets for this kid you're travelling with?  
> Severus: I knew a woman once who liked sweets.  
> Sailor Girl: --okay then?
> 
> Thank you to everyone reading! On Wednesday, Harry arrives in Korenlei. See you then.


	5. Four: Ghent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The waiter had left. Harry didn’t know whether he would be back, or if he needed to get up and go somewhere to tell them what he wanted or what; he’d never been to a restaurant in his life and felt as though everyone around him could tell. ___

**Four: Ghent**

Harry had a new favourite thing: his bed in Korenlei. His _double_ bed in Korenlei. His double bed with four fluffy pillows and two different blankets and a heavenly soft mattress. In Korenlei. It was a fun street name to say: it rolled off the tongue as he tried it now in a whisper, wanting to say it as Ms Hetzel had said it, with a hard _r_ that he couldn’t quite get.

He’d found it a little difficult to follow what Ms Hetzel was saying to him at first, but then he’d got used to it and ended up actually learning what city and country he was in, which really shouldn’t have been a source of joy in a normal world. She had taught him a few words in Flemish, too, and French, easy things like _hello_ and _please_ , so he could say them in shops and such; she’d left barely half an hour ago to ‘give them some peace’ and he’d already forgotten all the words, but then he didn’t suppose Snape would be taking him to a whole lot of shops in which to practice.

Ms Hetzel was a squib, which meant Harry could show her his photo album. He’d felt a little silly, forcing it on a stranger who probably didn’t even care what Harry’s parents did or did not look like, but she had been the first person to express any sort of interest in what he had to say ever since he’d left Hogwarts—which hadn’t even been that long ago when he thought about it. It _felt_ like an age though.

Now, he lay on his new double bed, feeling much better than he had back in Brussels, and listened to the sounds from the kitchen, where Snape waged a war against the hob. Since picking Harry up from the hostel and telling him they were going to spend the night in Ghent, he hadn’t said much to anyone at all, including Ms Hetzel. When she’d stayed with Harry, he’d gone to shower for ages, and then out to buy food, and then when he came back and saw Harry and Ms Hetzel were looking through the album, he’d exiled himself to the kitchen.

At least he hadn’t gone off at Harry for carrying the album around. The morning with all its disasters and fears seemed far away, like maybe it had happened another day. Now, it felt to Harry like things were going his way for once, and after all the lying down and resting he had done first in Brussels and then now with Ms Hetzel, he was even feeling hungry again. He only hoped he would sleep well tonight and that nothing horrible would happen; he couldn’t think of much worse than doing _that_ in his new double bed, or having Ms Hetzel find out about it.

Curious, and maybe also a little keen to see Snape having trouble with something for once, Harry edged toward the door to the kitchen suite and peered through the creak. He spotter the hob, one of those he had seen only on TV. Induction hobs, they were called. The groceries were set to the side of the cramped table. And then there was Snape himself, fiddling with the knobs in severe concentration. Harry swallowed the laugh: it wouldn’t do to alert Snape to his presence, and this was possibly a little mean, especially since Harry himself had never used a hob like that and wouldn’t have known what to do either, even though he’d been raised by muggles.

Then again, it was Snape’s own fault for not asking Ms Hetzel how to work it before she’d left. And Snape, even if he wasn’t an aspiring murderer like Harry had once thought, was a pretty mean person on a good day, and likely never beat himself up for enjoying it when Harry or Neville struggled to make their cauldrons do as they were told, so Harry should be allowed to enjoy this, too—

Snape shoved at the hob. It banged against the wall: not so hard as to take damage, but loud enough that Harry’s heart leaped to his throat in surprise. He hurried back to his bed and threw himself on it, trying to act like he’d never moved in the first place. The tension of this morning came flooding back, and Harry realised at once that he was all alone with a man who verifiably hated him, and they’d both had a pretty exhausting couple of days, and Harry didn’t _think_ Snape would actually hurt him, but he also recognized he barely knew him at all.

‘Potter!’

Harry looked at his lap. He did his best to make his breathing and his thoughts extra quiet, as if then Snape might miss the fact he was even there.

‘We’re going out to eat. Are you ready?’

‘Yes?’

‘Are you asking _me_ if you’re ready? Get up then, let’s go.’

They went down Korenlei. Lights glistened on the water, people chattered at tables set out on the low bank, and it seemed odd to be afraid of anything at all. By the time they’d found their way to a restaurant, with soft chairs precarious on the cobbles and food served out of a little boat, the sun had disappeared behind the building that loomed further down the river—it seemed to Harry like it would have been a church, or some sort of cathedral, maybe, but he imagined instead it was a castle much like Hogwarts, and that the whole of Ghent, medieval and strange and busy, was the campus of a magic school where Belgian wizards went, and instead of dormitories, they slept in the colourful houses that hanged just above the water front.

The waiter gave Harry a menu that had some English in it, looped between the strange syllables of words he couldn’t read. Harry spent the first few minutes desperately trying to find a single item that wasn’t wine, and after that, he didn’t know most of the dishes. The waiter had left. Harry didn’t know whether he would be back, or if he needed to get up and go somewhere to tell them what he wanted or what; he’d never been to a restaurant in his life and felt as though everyone around him could tell.

The waiter came back. He asked Snape for his order first, and Snape said something that went right past Harry. Then he turned to Harry, who sat dumb even as Snape barked at him to say what he wanted.

‘I—I’m not sure,’ he said lamely, looking through the menu as he tried and failed to understand a single thing.

‘We have better things to do with our lives than wait around for you,’ Snape said, and took the menu right out of Harry’s shaking hands. He could tell the tremble didn’t go unnoticed, from the way the waiter gave him a sad smile and from the way Snape’s eyebrow twitched; Harry quickly pushed his hands between his thighs to hold them still.

In the end, it would have probably been quicker if Harry had been allowed to pick something at random, because it took Snape ages to decide for him. He tried to pay attention at first, but soon deemed the experience too mortifying, and eased his thoughts instead into a soft buzz, hoping that if he were very quiet even in his own head, everyone might forget he was there.

He hoped at least he wouldn’t be getting anything too disgusting. Hermione had told him once that her grandmother had gone travelling and eaten all sorts of bugs, and even this little squid that was still alive. He didn’t think that had been in Belgium, though he couldn’t remember really, and he felt sick now at the very idea. Ron had said that once, when he was seven, he’d eaten a worm on a dare, and it had been horrid. Due to this, he understood perfectly what Hermione’s grandmother had been through, he’d said, and he had a lot of respect for her.

Would he even see them again? Dumbledore had said that he could probably come back to Britain in a few weeks, but Harry hadn’t missed the _probably_ , and anyway, the two days he’d been away with Snape already felt like much longer. What if he didn’t make it back in time for when school started up again? Would they expel him for not showing up? And if he did show up, would Ron and Hermione even be his friends anymore, if they were going to spend all summer reading bad things about him in the paper and thinking he was rubbish for never writing them to explain?

Snape hadn’t ordered any worms. Instead, Harry was brought what looked like boiled vegetables and chicken breast, and a cup of tea. He was a little annoyed at first, since Snape’s food looked way better and fancier, and he had a cold drink that came from a bottle with a pink elephant, but then he remembered how his stomach had been just a few hours ago. It was more consideration than he’d have expected. Also, the drink that came from the elephant bottle turned out to smell like beer, which was just poor branding as far as Harry was concerned.

When they were done, the waiter brought them the bill in a little ashtray that had glitter in it and complimentary mints, which Snape naturally didn’t let Harry take. On their way out, they were intercepted by their waiter, because it turned out Snape had paid in the wrong currency, only the waiter said it in a way Snape didn’t immediately understand, and there followed a terrible awkwardness as they each worked to remedy the other’s perceived confusion, trying to flatten their accents and enunciate and rephrase, and by the time Snape had caught up to what had happened, he had gone a little red.

This time, though Harry still enjoyed the spectacle, it was for a different reason altogether: it was plain nice, he supposed, to see that Snape didn’t feel completely at ease either, and that he didn’t have it all figured out. It made Harry feel a little more confident himself, and he walked with his shoulders pulled straight as they strolled back up the river, lit now only by the orange lights from bars and illuminations.

Harry knew there wasn’t really a magic school here, or surely Ms Hetzel would have mentioned it, and anyway he wasn’t allowed to be near magic at the moment—but as he looked around the night, he felt the same rush he had when he’d first visited Diagon Alley or Hogwarts. It tingled in the back of his neck and warmed his fingertips: as if there _were_ magic here, too, in the water, the evening breeze, and in the ground beneath their feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters _again? _I don't know what to tell you. These two are such short, tiny things that I felt bad for them and decided they'd do better with company.__


	6. Five: Ghent to Amsterdam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It reminded him of that summer after his fifth year at Hogwarts. The summer of the heat wave. The summer of storms. The summer when Lily wouldn’t speak to him. ___

**Five: Ghent to Amsterdam**

They stayed in Ghent for three nights, each one longer than the last. Severus’s lungs urged him to go on. His thoughts, quiet during the day, awoke with dusk and procured for him images of pursuits and Aurors and Lucius Malfoy’s hand laid gently on Potter’s head. In the evenings, he left the windows thrown wide open and pulled the shutters to help against the heat, so the sounds of nightlife drifted in easily from the river bank below, and robbed Severus of sleep until he’d exhausted himself with planning for contingencies.

At least he had Potter taken care of. Hetzel’s sister came each morning to take him on a walk and wore him out well enough that he didn’t complain over being made to lie down and watch TV during the afternoons. Severus had fully expected the boy to grow bored of the old woman’s company and dump her a day in, but the pair of them seemed to get on just fine. He supposed he hadn’t known either of his grandmothers as a child and had never experienced the benefits of that dynamic.

It didn’t matter either way, not as long as their getting along meant they stayed out of his hair, and they had, largely, safe for an incident that first morning when Potter expressed suddenly a pressing need for being shown how one made scrambled eggs, right then and there as Severus was trying to have his morning coffee. He did catch a peek of how the Hetzel woman turned on the bloody hob, so he couldn’t be too annoyed about that, either.

Today, finally, they would move on: Severus had gone down to the bus station in the morning and got them two tickets to Amsterdam for a coach departing at quarter past two, which would get them there in good time to find a place to sleep for the night. Taught by experience, he was planning on spending a few days in the city before moving on to Berlin. If slowing down would save him having to deal with more sick children, he could sacrifice a few nights of sleep.

At quarter to one, the door burst open and the merry pair waltzed in, chuckling openly until their eyes caught on Severus’s glare and they fell into a morose silence. Having that effect on people without even trying: an enviable natural talent indeed.

‘Eat quickly and pack,’ he told the boy, pushing the plate toward him. ‘We’re leaving in less than an hour.’

Ever since he’d been stupid enough to bring a child with a sick stomach to a restaurant of all places, he’d tried to keep it simple and made toast and eggs and cooked oatmeal. The Dark Lord’s youngest-ever Potions Master, Dumbledore’s most trusted spy, now promoted to Golden Boy’s personal chef.

Potter eyed the sandwiches with an unvoiced sigh. Severus braced himself for an argument.

‘We just had waffles, for our goodbye,’ Hetzel’s sister spoke up. ‘You must have real waffles at least one time when you’re in Belgium, or you’re not allowed leave, right Harry?’

Potter murmured his assent without looking at either of them.

‘So, we’re very full,’ she added unnecessarily.

‘I imagine. Well, what are you waiting for, Potter? There are some foil bags in the kitchen somewhere, wrap these up and bring them along for later.’

The boy eyed him with blatant suspicion, though what it was he suspected Severus _of_ , he wouldn’t have tried to guess. He disappeared into the kitchen then to do as he was told. He did quite a bit of that, actually, ever since they’d left Hogwarts—Severus dreaded the moment when the novelty of the experience wore off and the brat returned to his usual self.

He escaped onto the balcony after, knowing the two of them would start chattering away the moment he was out of earshot. He spent much of his time out here, watching the passers-by. The sun struck powerfully, and Severus allowed himself the indulgence of rolling up his sleeves, which he could not normally do: the Dark Mark had been designed precisely so that no glamours could conceal it, and any Death Eater had to ultimately resign themselves to being a little too hot in the summer months.

It reminded him of that summer after his fifth year at Hogwarts. The summer of the heat wave. The summer of storms. The summer when Lily wouldn’t speak to him. It had happed just after the OWLs: he had told her he was sick of her treating him like a pet, she had told him he was an idiot, they’d argued, James Potter and his gang made a fool of him, and she’d protected him, and Severus had called her a mudblood. All in all, it hadn’t been very different from their usual routine; except for that one word, at the end.

He had apologised and then apologised again, and though she hadn’t accepted, he’d been convinced that by the time they were back in Cokeworth for the summer everything would be back to normal. They were always more themselves in Cokeworth, a freer and less restrained version of them, and the conflicts and tensions carried over from the wizarding world faded into the background the moment they stepped foot onto the faded grass on that lonely hill behind Spinner’s End. What else was she going to do all summer anyway? Hang out with Petunia? Please.

And yet, she did not relent. She didn’t come to the hill. She pretended not to be home when he knocked on her door, or she sent Petunia to scare him away. When they ran into each other in High Street, she pushed her chin up and looked right through him with an absent smile, as if he weren’t there; and when he spoke, she acted as if it had been the wind.

He had, perhaps, been a little in love with her before then, in some unrealised, innocent, childish way. But that summer, when he saw through what he’d believed of her and glimpsed for the first time that self-indulgent cruelty, that moral arrogance, the blind self-righteousness: that had been the first time he’d looked at her and thought, _how horrible you are,_ and, _I love you._

‘Mr Snape. Is it time for you to go, maybe?’

She had startled him. Standing in the doorway to the balcony, watching him with a calculating eye, she looked just like her brother: old and severe and timelessly vibrant.

‘Yes,’ he said, because it had been time to leave a few minutes ago, actually, and he’d missed it completely.

They still made it to the station in good time. The bus was stunk up with people and petrol, and Severus had to edge the window open and breathe through the creak to keep nausea at bay. Potter contented himself with bobbing his head absent-mindedly to the tune from the driver’s radio, and with watching Severus out of the corner of his eye in a manner that was distinctly unsettling.

About two hours in, they drove into Meer, and when Severus spotted the first sign directing toward border control, he stood and made his way to the driver’s booth. Quietly and with significant aid of the universal language of gesture, he explained he was travelling with a sick child and they needed to urgently stop at the nearest petrol station.

He breathed easier once his feet were back on solid ground. Potter looked unimpressed.

‘I’m not sick anymore,’ he informed him.

‘I am aware,’ Severus said, then realised he might be spared further whining if he explained. ‘It would be difficult to avoid border control if we stayed on the coach, and we don’t have the necessary visas. It’s a manageable distance from here, so we’ll go by foot and cross the border under the cloak. We’ll catch another bus once we’re on the other side.’

Severus sincerely hoped it wouldn’t occur to the boy to learn from this. He hardly wished to improve his skills in sneaking about.

‘Let’s go then. Do you need the facilities first?’

‘I’m allowed?’

Severus told himself it wouldn’t do to strangle Lily’s child over a single piece of cheek. The boy had James Potter’s genes after all. He could not be held fully accountable: he’d been doomed from birth.

‘I have no interest in your attempts at humour, Potter. Trust me, I am well aware that I am your last choice for travel companion, but I believe I have been entirely fair in the few demands I have made on your behaviour—’

‘You’re not my _last_ choice,’ the boy said. ‘I mean, if I had to travel with Voldemort, he’d probably try to kill me. You just like, yell.’

‘Do not say his name,’ Severus chastised, but with little heat: if the boy had to be insolent, he supposed at least he might be funny while doing it.

‘Can I really go to the loo? I thought maybe we were in a hurry or something.’

Severus just shook at him to go, feeling a little out of step.

He watched the boy zap off toward the station, like he was being chased down by a horde of wolves. Lily had never rushed. One time, they’d been folded on the sofa at the Evanses, and Severus asked Lily to fetch the tea he’d forgotten on the counter. She slunk to the floor to crawl there in slow-motion, like she was fighting through her dying breaths. He had eventually grown impatient and got up to get the tea himself.

‘When you want something done, do it yourself,’ she cited seriously. ‘A little life lesson for you, my sweet summer child.’

She then laughed for a solid minute, as if what she’d said had been the greatest joke ever told.

‘You’re horrible,’ he told her.

‘Aww, I love you too,’ she said, and then laughed more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> A bigger chapter coming on Saturday: some adorableness, an unexpected meeting, and plenty of trouble ahead.


	7. Six: Amsterdam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Harry wouldn’t be surprised if Snape had actually kidnapped him: he had the character for it. He was probably going to sell him off to a human trafficker. ___

**Six: Amsterdam**

Harry had never watched this much TV in his _life._

They’d arrived in Amsterdam late last night, and Harry had fallen asleep the moment he’d laid down. But after breakfast the next morning, it became clear Snape didn’t really know what to do with him, especially since they’d been packed together into a single room, with twin beds and a tiny bathroom where the shower door got stuck against the wall if you tried to open it all the way. It wasn’t as fancy as Ms Hetzel’s place, but it felt more like the sort of room one stayed in when travelling, and Harry enjoyed that. He’d spent much of the morning making up dialogue in his head for the Dutch shows he scanned through, but he’d got bored of that now, switched to the sports channel—Uncle Vernon watched football sometimes, so Harry knew a little about it—and began to imagine things about his own life instead.

In order to do so, he lay back on the bed, so he could see the ceiling when he looked up, and when he looked to his right, Snape sitting by the window-side table. Back in Ghent, Snape had sat out on the balcony most days, and now he kept to that little table; Harry thought maybe he was watching the street, to make sure no one was pursuing them. He knew if that were true, Snape would have been watching for the wizard police who might come take Harry to some sort of wizarding prison for what he’d done, but that wasn’t a thing he liked to think about; so instead, he imagined he was Snape’s captive, and that Dumbledore and the Ministry of Magic and Harry’s friends had all teamed up to try and find him, only Snape kept outsmarting them. Harry couldn’t escape, because Snape had taken away his wand when he’d kidnapped him and told Harry he would break it in half if he tried to run away. And without his wand, Harry couldn’t go to Hogwarts anymore or be a wizard—he’d have to go back to the Dursleys and never see Ron or Hermione again.

But Harry wasn’t about to sit around doing nothing, either. In every place they visited, he carved little messages into the wooden bedframes, like breadcrumbs that would eventually lead his friends back to him—he didn’t _actually_ do it, of course, he wasn’t a _vandal_ —and then one night, he would get Snape drunk and steal his wand from out of his coat as he slept.

He wasn’t planning on doing that either, but it was a fun thing to imagine.

‘Am I really more interesting than the television?’

Harry quickly looked back at the ceiling. ‘No, sir.’

He heard Snape sigh. ‘Merlin save me from bored children. Go on then, up. I would give you some cauldrons to scrub instead, but I suppose I shall have to take you out on a walk or you’ll start getting into your usual mischief.’

‘I won’t!’ Harry said, because it was true, and all he’d been doing was just _sitting there_ yet Snape was already getting on his case.

‘I don’t believe you. Get up.’

Harry wouldn’t be surprised if Snape _had_ actually kidnapped him: he had the character for it. He was probably going to sell him off to a human trafficker. Maybe Snape went around and talked to the parents of all his pupils, pretending like it was about their grades or behaviour or some such thing, and then instead he would find out if they were any good with chores. And if he’d asked the Dursleys, he would have found out Harry could do lots around the house, and immediately thought, _ah yes, the perfect little slave to sell on the black market._

He thought about that as they walked, and crossed little bridges and dodged cyclists and crowds of tourists, and as the skies grew darker and darker with the sweat gathered over days of heat. Amsterdam seemed to be half water already, the canals cut into street after street after street, and Harry thought maybe it had made the ground wet and precarious, because some of the prettiest houses stood tilted toward one another.

About an hour in, Harry’s feet began to ache. He had never walked quite as much with Ms Hetzel, or at such relentlessly quick pace, and he was thinking now that Snape was probably trying to tire him out.

He felt relief when they came across a square covered entirely in booths and stalls and people, and were forced to slow down significantly.

‘Stay close,’ Snape ordered, sounding distinctly displeased.

Harry had never seen a market this big. He followed Snape closely past stalls bursting with bags, with antique clockfaces, with jewellery and books and vinyl records and caricatures of celebrities. The smells on their own were overwhelming: sweat and storm and beer and grease, rushing at him from all directions until he wrinkled his nose trying to keep them out.

A man at one of the food stalls yelled something at them that Harry didn’t understand, and then yelled it again in English, ‘Fresh herring! You want fresh herring? Come try, Amsterdam delicacy!’

The fresh herring was probably the worst of all the smells: strong and salty and covered in onion and pickles, and—

‘It’s _raw_ ,’ Harry said out loud, because it felt important that Snape should be made aware.

‘Lovely,’ Snape said. ‘We’ll take one for the boy.’

Harry looked up to him in horror. But when the man handed Snape the atrocity on a tiny paper tray, he didn’t try and force it on Harry.

‘I wouldn’t waste this on a child’s tastebuds,’ he said, then took Harry by the shoulder and steered him toward a different stall, which held a deep pan drowned in grease, and a stack of small, oval-shaped doughnuts covered in powdered sugar. ‘These would be better suited, I imagine.’

Harry’s doughnuts came hot from the pan and not tasting much like doughnuts, but he thought they were probably one of the best things he’d ever eaten, even as they burnt the tips of his fingers and covered his collar in white dust. He didn’t understand Snape at all, sometimes: he was extra careful to always try and be the scariest, meanest person around, but then he’d been surprisingly nice to Harry a few times during this trip. Maybe he was just stressed out at school, Harry thought, and summer helped him relax a little; or maybe he was fattening Harry up because the human trafficker preferred chubby children.

‘Are you really going to eat that, sir?’ he asked Snape. He wouldn’t have put it past him to have purchased the herring only to give Harry a scare.

‘Yes, Potter, I am really going to eat that.’

Harry rose on his toes a little to see the fish again. _Oh God._ He instantly felt bad for Snape.

‘Well, you can have some of my doughnuts after if you like,’ he told him. ‘To get rid of the taste.’

Snape smiled at that, with the very corner of his mouth. Harry didn’t know whether to be pleased that Snape thought he was funny or embarrassed by it.

Once they’d left the market area, he could step to the side and put more distance between himself and the smelly fish. He felt a burst of cold on the tip of his head and looked up at the skies: it would begin pouring down any minute.

Maybe Snape wouldn’t have kidnapped him to sell on as a child slave. He imagined it differently, now: what if Snape was going to keep him for himself, because for some reason he wanted to have a child, but he was scary and unpleasant so of course no one would ever want to have one _with_ him? He would have gone to an adoption agency or something like that first, and had to answer all these questions, and then the people there would have said, _sir, we can’t in good faith give you a child, you would be a truly horrible father,_ and so he’d have to kidnap himself one instead. He was going to bring Harry to his house and keep him chained in a dungeon, feeding him raw fish for every meal and having him scrub cauldrons to stop him getting up to mischief, and if he scrubbed a thousand cauldrons, he would get a baggie of tiny Dutch doughnuts as a reward.

‘We need to find a place to hide,’ Snape said, looking at the sky like it had just asked a stupid question in Potions.

‘There’s a coffeeshop there,’ Harry pointed to a yellow-striped storefront. It looked like some sort of exotic shop, because it had palm leaves or something like that set in a neon light next to a banner that read, _Mellow Yellow Coffeeshop._ It gave Harry the impression it would be nice and warm inside, which he could really use right now.

The corner of Snape’s mouth smiled again. ‘I don’t imagine the Headmaster would be happy to hear I was partaking in this particular type of coffee while I’m meant to be watching you.’

Harry wasn’t sure what that was about. Aunt Petunia sometimes made Irish coffee for her friends when they came over and it smelled strongly of alcohol, so he guessed maybe Snape had meant something like that.

Before he could suggest Snape just order a non-alcoholic coffee, or maybe a tea, the door to the shop blew open and a man erupted from inside, large and broad-shouldered and entirely intimidating, especially as he shouted,

‘Severus!’

Snape stiffened.

The man crossed the road, stumbling a little with a chortle all to himself, and then he was right next to them and clapping Snape on the back like they were old friends.

‘Fancy seeing you here! What, ten years now? Bloody Merlin but you look the same! On holiday, are you?’

‘Valerian,’ Snape said curtly. He was, Harry noticed, trying to subtly edge forward until he’d placed himself between Harry and the Valerian man.

‘ _Valerian_ , please. No one calls me that anymore—we were just trying to sound all serious, weren’t we? As fancy as purebloods, with our Valerians and Severuses. Some sick sense of humour our mothers had, punching above their weight—it’s just Val now, dear old Sev—years on, and you still can’t relax? Come, join me—’

‘I am fine, thank you. As you can see, I have company.’

‘Oh, right, right,’ Valerian seemed like he’d only just noticed Harry standing there. ‘They’re not letting _him_ in, that’s for sure! Is he yours, the little elf?’

If Harry weren’t so concerned about this whole circumstance and Snape’s reaction to it, he would have told the man that he took offense at being called an _elf_ , and at being denied entry to the coffeeshop just because he wasn’t an adult—he didn’t think they should be allowed to discriminate against children this way, but maybe that was normal in the Netherlands. He glared at the man instead, determined to show him he wasn’t going to be cowed in any case.

Then, the man’s eyes widened.

‘He’s not yours, is he? That’s—’

‘ _Valerian_.’

‘The Boy Who Lived, as I live and breathe. What are _you_ doing with him?’

‘I suggest you drop this matter entirely, Valerian, if you do not wish for things to get ugly.’

Valerian laughed loud enough that Harry’s ears rang with it. ‘This is splendid! Severus Snape, dearest, most loyal, an inspiration to all—and he’s licking little baby Potter’s boots the moment the wind changes! Fantastic.’

Harry caught a sliver of Snape’s glare. It made him shudder. He really wanted for the man to go away, so Snape could stop looking like that, so they could go and forget about the entire thing—

‘Look, don’t worry,’ Valerian patted Snape on his chest. ‘Not young and stupid anymore. I’m too old for this shit, all of that effort—I can’t be bothered. You want to be Potter’s lapdog now, go be Potter’s lapdog, what do I care? Hey, baby Potter, listen. I’m going to give you some advice now.’

He leaned forward, until his face was roughly level with Harry’s—Snape pulled him back—

‘Don’t. Bother,’ Valerian said, too loud for how close he was standing. ‘Seriously, don’t bother. They told us we would change the world, didn’t they, Severus? And look at that, everything’s the same. Same assholes in power, same vermin on the streets—do you know, I can go in there and I can get all the blasted buzz I want. But if I do this—’

He pulled out his wand.

Snape grabbed him by the shirt.

‘—relax, relax! Not gonna try anything in front of your little elf. I’m just saying, I pull this out here, in the street, like a free man in this country, and they can bloody charge me—half the bloody Malfoy fortune, they can fine me. What can you do? We tried to change things round, and when we get smack for it, well, the Dark Lord’s conveniently in the ground by then—’

‘Won’t you _shut up—’_

‘Hey, you alright there?’

A green-haired girl who’d just exited the coffeeshop was walking their direction, followed by a pack of friends all bearing the same puzzled looks. Harry felt a burst of hope.

‘Hey, man, you need to cool down, alright?’ she said to Valerian, then called something out to her friends in Dutch. She looked at Harry, then at Snape. ‘You’re bothering them. Come sit down inside, okay?’

‘I think what he needs is a _long_ rest,’ Snape hissed. Harry took a step closer to the green-haired girl. ‘Where are you staying, Valerian?’

‘Just there,’ Valerian pointed, nearly hitting Snape in the face. ‘Ha! Just there, there’s a street up there, and then it’s left and Bob’s your uncle, as they say—’

‘I’ll take him back to his hotel,’ Snape told the girl. ‘He’s an old friend.’

‘Okay,’ she seemed unconvinced. She threw another glance at Harry. ‘Are you sure you’re going to be alright?’

Harry wanted to tell her no, he wasn’t sure of that at all, but Snape was already yanking Valerian along, and every instinct in Harry was telling him that trying to disobey right now would be a bad idea.

‘Arrivederci,’ Valerian saluted the girl, and as he did, Harry spotted a black shape on the skin of his forearm: something fine and detailed that didn’t look like hair.

‘Arrivederci,’ the girl said. ‘Cool tattoo by the way.’

Valerian glanced down at his forearm, then back up at her, and finally doubled in half, laughing maniacally.

Snape looked _livid._

They trudged along to Valerian’s hotel, and up in the lift and then into his room, all in perfect silence safe for Valerian’s jarringly truncated monologues. Snape bodily pushed him onto the lush bed, and then before Harry had had the time to try and take another look at that mysterious tattoo, he was grabbed by the arm and dragged back out into the corridor, and down the stairs and the street, and Snape didn’t let him go until they’d reached their own hotel.

Harry was too afraid to ask. He focused instead on memorising each turn, each storefront passed and each street name that wasn’t too long or complicated to repeat.

‘I need to go take care of some business,’ Snape told him. His eyes shone in a way Harry didn’t like. ‘You will stay in the room and you will not move. Is that clear?’

‘Are you going to see Dumbledore?’

‘It is none of your concern who I am going to see,’ Snape said, but his hand tightened briefly on the pocket where Harry knew he kept the magic mirror, the one he’d use to talk to Dumbledore when he thought Harry was asleep. ‘I have asked you if my instructions were clear. Are they clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Snape left without another word.

For a moment, Harry just sat and breathed.

He tried to sort through the tangle that was his mind. First, there was something going on that Snape didn’t want Harry knowing, but was likely on his way to tell Dumbledore about. Second, the creepy man from the coffee shop had spoken of some dark lord, which sounded like it could have been about Voldemort, and he had known Snape when they were young. It seemed like they’d been pretty tight, too, so there was no guarantee Snape wasn’t secretly in cahoots with him, and no guarantee he would tell Dumbledore the actual truth. And Harry wouldn’t be able to determine that until he knew the full story, and he wouldn’t get the full story by sitting in his hotel room, watching TV as if he were a regular boy on a regular holiday.

He didn’t have a lot to go on at all, but he knew at least the tattoo was important, or else Snape wouldn’t have been so furious about it. And Valerian had seemed like he would be falling asleep right away, which meant that the tattoo along with any further clues were exactly where they’d left them, guarded only by one slumbering drunk.

He remembered the way well, but still he felt a nasty thrill in his stomach every time he turned a corner, bred from nothing other than the alienness of the city, the dusky darkness, the fact that he again wasn’t sure whether he was safe with Snape, the fact that he really wished he had Ron and Hermione here with him.

The portier remembered Harry from when they’d brought Valerian, and he let him in with only a nod. Harry wrung his hands together as he traversed corridors and corridors of orange lights, his shadow on the carpeted floor as fluttery as breath.

The door to Valerian’s room wasn’t locked. Inside, the curtains had been pulled over the window, the darkness deep and all-consuming, punctured only by the red digits of the alarm. Valerian lay much as Harry had seen him last, limbs tossed in all directions, visible only in the stream of light from the corridor—until Harry closed the door, and then saw nothing at all.

He made his way forward blind, feeling around the floor with his foot. By the time he’d caught a leg of the bed on the tip of his shoe, his eyed had adjusted some to the darkness, and he made out the man’s face, calm and smooth in sleep.

Harry drew in a breath, held it, then turned on the bedside lamp.

Valerian did not move.

He leaned over the bed, trying to reach where the man’s hand lay thrown over his chest, but he fell a few inches short. He would need to climb on the mattress. It was stupid, but he felt more afraid now than he had when getting past Fluffy, and Fluffy hadn’t even been asleep at first. He reminded himself Valerian only had the one head, and that his wand lay on the bedside table where he wouldn’t be able to immediately reach it; after a moment of consideration, Harry even picked it up and hid it in the drawer.

He put one knee on the mattress. It caved a little but didn’t shift. Like a gymnast balanced on a rope, he edged forward until his other knee sat on the bed—the mattress squeaked under his weight—

Valerian’s head rolled to the side.

Harry startled back, nearly falling off, before he realised the man’s eyes were closed. His breathing hadn’t changed. He was still asleep. Harry was safe. Harry was maybe safe even if the man had woken up: that was, perhaps, why he was so afraid in the first place. There was no way of telling if and how much he was risking.

He took Valerian’s hand, turned it over and found the tattoo.

It was a black skull, with a snake coming out of its mouth.

He didn’t know what it was the green-haired girl had liked about it. He didn’t know why it had made Snape so angry, either. All he felt at seeing it was a peculiar sense of unease, like something in Harry was telling him not to look anymore.

He reached out to trace it with his finger. But the moment he made contact with skin, his head _howled._

Harry’s scar seemed to agree with Snape. The tattoo was bad news.

It had to be Voldemort. The tattoo must have had something to do with Voldemort, because nothing else ever made Harry’s scar hurt; and that meant the man had worked for Voldemort, or been friends with him or something, years ago, and all of that had something to do with Snape, too, which would need to wait until later because if Valerian had ever been Voldemort’s man, then this was _not_ a good place for Harry to be, not for another minute—

He had just managed to crawl halfway down the bed when he heard footsteps.

Without thinking, Harry leapt, until his knees hit the floor, until he was pushing himself under the bed on his stomach, pulling his feet in just in time, because the door had now opened—

He watched the approach from his poor vantage point, unable to tell anything about the person but that they had a pair of feet that looked like a man’s.

The man stood over the bed in perfect silence, for what felt to Harry a lifetime.

Then, a burst of green light struck the room.

Harry’s breath stopped.

‘Well, that’s done,’ came a murmur. It was Snape’s voice.

This was _bad._

Harry waited, with jolted breaths that didn’t want to be exhaled properly, until Snape left the room, until the door closed behind him, and a little after that. Then, he crawled out from under the bed, ran across the room, fighting against everything in him calling to turn around and _look_. He raced down the corridors, down the stairway and the lobby and then up streets and turns, the same way he’d come, the sound of his shoes on the pavement a strange rhythm that made him feel like he was going mad.

This was bad. Had Snape killed that man? Yes, Harry had seen green light in his dreams before, and he’d come to associate it with bad, evil things, and with Voldemort; but even as his instinct shouted a resounding _yes,_ his brain supplied that Harry hadn’t heard the incantation, and didn’t even know the incantation for killing people, and there were probably many spells that looked green.

Harry needed to get back to their hotel first. He needed to get back before Snape. He needed to—

Even if Snape hadn’t killed the man, though, he had done _something_ to him and Harry had been right there, which meant the Ministry would be alerted. Dumbledore had explained it all to Harry before they’d left: how they tracked all underage wizards to make sure they didn’t use magic outside of school, but couldn’t tell it apart if the child had cast a spell or if someone very close had done it, so kids like Ron would have probably got away with it since they lived with other wizards and triggered their tracker all the time, while kids like Harry or Hermione would be caught straight away. And that meant the police might be after Harry now. And that meant—

What if Snape _had_ killed Valerian? Would someone at the Ministry find out about which spell was used, too, and then think that _Harry_ had done it? That Harry had done it _again_?

He needed to be back before Snape.

He burst into the hotel, startling the man at reception into spilling some of his coffee, and then raced upstairs and into the room.

He was back before Snape.

He locked himself in the bathroom. While he was splashing water over his face—over his face and his shirt and everywhere—he heard the door open.

They needed to get out of here, he realised. They couldn’t stay if the Ministry knew where they were, that was what Dumbledore had said, and Harry didn’t want to go to prison for murder, and he definitely didn’t want to go to prison for _double_ murder. Going anywhere with Snape didn’t sound that great to Harry right now, but the man hadn’t killed him so far, had he, and Harry had no idea where to go or how to get there—he needed Snape. He was all alone in a foreign country with a man he didn’t know _at all_ , with a man that might have just murdered someone, a man that might have been friends with Voldemort’s followers. And he couldn’t even run.

He got out of the bathroom.

Snape was facing away from him, readying his pyjamas for the night. It suddenly occurred to Harry that Snape always wore long sleeves.

‘Have you showered?’ he asked. ‘If so, get into bed.’

‘No, but—’ every muscle in Harry’s body tightened. ‘Shouldn’t we get going, sir? You know, to where we’re going next?’

‘We’re going to Berlin on Monday.’

Monday. That was two days from now. By Monday, Harry would be cosying up to his pet rat in a prison cell.

‘But that’s ages away.’

Snape turned around. ‘Excuse me, have I not provided enough entertainment for you? Has life on the lam not diverted you enough, Potter?’

‘No, but—’

‘But nothing. The last time we tried to travel at more than a snail’s pace, you were immediately ill. Our schedule has been adjusted appropriately.’

‘I feel better now though,’ Harry tried, growing desperate. How was he supposed to convince Snape without telling him what had happened? Without telling him he’d maybe witnessed Snape _murder someone_? ‘Really. We can go right now—’

‘Right now?’ Snape scoffed. ‘Right now, you’re going to bed. I’m really not in the mood to debate this with you tonight, Potter, so I suggest you do as you’re told.’

Harry went to bed.

For hours, he lay in the darkness, listening to the sounds of cars outside and to Snape’s breathing in the bed next to him. He counted every minute as it passed, knowing he was missing the chance to do something—to get up, tell Snape what had happened, convince him some other way, try to sneak out and run away, anything—and that each inaction brought him closer to some horrible fate he couldn’t conceptualise, because he didn’t actually _know_ what would happen: would the Ministry find him and send him to prison? Would Snape find out what had happened and get really mad, or would he hurt Harry to keep him quiet, or would he not care at all because it had been his plan all along to never let him return to Britain? Fact, conjecture and fantasy blurred together; he wasn’t sure what he was afraid of and that made it all the more terrifying.

And then, something lit up golden on the nightstand by Snape’s bed. The mirror.

Snape got up. He took the mirror to the bathroom. Harry thought he heard whispers, but he couldn’t make out a single word.

And then, Snape was coming back out, staring Harry in the eye with a horrifying expression of urgent fury, and he was clutching him under the armpits and dragging him out of bed—and Harry wanted to scream for help but knew none would come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is wondering how Snape managed to arrive so late after Harry, he definitely got lost on the way. Please do assume he's getting lost constantly even when it is not mentioned directly; that's what I do.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	8. Seven: Amsterdam to Berlin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The little brat had been lying there, pretending to sleep, knowing full well what had happened yet unwilling to share with the class. And how was Severus supposed to handle things like Albus seemingly expected him to if the nightmare child refused to do a single thing he asked? ___

**Seven: Amsterdam to Berlin**

Snape had been on the very brink of sleep, the relief of the slip palpably near, when Albus decided to remind him he wasn’t legally allowed rest.

He locked himself in the bathroom and lowered his voice to a whisper: it was nearly midnight and the boy had conked out hours ago. This had been an altogether unfortunate day. He hoped for a quick update and a late morning.

Albus’s expression did away with those dreams.

‘What happened?’ they both asked at the same time. Albus’s mouth quirked.

‘Shall I go first?’ he proposed. ‘I am asking you what happened, Severus, because I have just received news that Harry’s tracker was triggered, and the Ministry know he is in Amsterdam.’

‘Damn it. How did they—how is that possible?’

‘You don’t know?’

‘No, I—do you know what spell it was?’

‘I do, in fact,’ Albus confirmed. ‘It was _Obliviate_.’

Severus closed his eyes. He swallowed.

‘I see your memory has been jogged,’ Albus chuckled. ‘Are you able to answer my question now?’

‘Yes,’ he hissed. ‘But it’s nothing urgent. I have taken care of it, I simply didn’t imagine—’

He was going to kill the child.

‘Do you know if they’ve sent anyone after him?’

‘I don’t,’ Albus said. ‘Officially, they have little ground to stand on were they to order a pursuit. But I have no current way of knowing what they may do covertly, and with Lucius involved, I would not put it past them to try and capture Harry at the first opportunity.’

‘Right.’ There went Severus’s lazy morning. ‘We’ll go. Do you need me to report now—’

‘You say you have handled it, so I consider it handled. Do please check in with me when you get to Berlin.’

It was rare that Albus didn’t want to hear every last detail of what Severus had been up to. He wasn’t sure whether to feel pleased at this show of trust or threatened by it.

Potter was wide awake when Severus got out of the bathroom. The little brat had been lying there, pretending to sleep, knowing full well what had happened yet unwilling to share with the class. And how was Severus supposed to handle things like Albus seemingly expected him to if the nightmare child refused to do a single thing he asked?

At least the boy had _some_ survival instinct, because he didn’t complain over being pulled out of bed in the middle of the night, or told to pack, or even dragged down streets filled with inebriated partygoers, fast and faster and _faster._

They reached the train station at a run more than a walk. Severus scanned the departures board frantically, adding up times and trying to locate cities on the poorly drawn map of Europe he held in his mind.

There were two other trains before it, but the one to Berlin was scheduled only a quarter of an hour after the last one, and Severus came to the executive decision this was not enough of a head-start to be worth ending up somewhere he had never even heard of.

Now that they were still, the chill from the night air began snaking its way through loose threads of clothing and sinking into skin. Next to him, Potter was shaking so hard it was audible; Severus thought of telling him to put on a jumper, but couldn’t help but think the boy deserved to suffer a little.

The platform was situated fully outside, and the breeze had grown vicious. The few people that waited around—two young women lugging huge backpacks, a tired businessman, a group of men dressed for clubbing—threw the two of them glance after glance. When the train came, they seemed almost surprised Severus and the boy got on at all, as if they’d presumed them revenants, haunting the quietest platforms of Amsterdam station during summer nights.

The train was perhaps half-full; he found an empty compartment only in the second carriage they’d traversed. Severus had enough trouble falling asleep when he was horizontal, but he couldn’t help but imagine how perfectly nice it would be to nod off with his head against the cold windowpane, and he felt a warm yearning settle in his chest.

They swayed a little as the train pulled into motion. Severus pushed Potter inside the compartment, then closed the door and pulled the curtains, sending airborne a cloud of dust.

‘So,’ he said, turning around with as much menace as he could muster. ‘I suppose you have your wish: we are indeed heading to Berlin early. Care to explain to me, Potter, why the bloody hell you thought it a fine idea to follow me earlier this evening, when you were explicitly told to stay put?’

Potter looked at his feet. ‘I didn’t follow you,’ he muttered.

Red flashed before Severus’s eyes. He tried to breathe through it. ‘I have had a tiring evening, Potter. I will give you fair warning that my patience is wearing extremely thin and it would be in your best interest to abstain from lying to my face.’

‘I’m not lying! I went there first and I didn’t know you would be there, too. And when you came, I was already there, so I couldn’t—I didn’t even know it was you, I didn’t see or anything, I was under the bed—’

‘Fine. Care to explain, then, why on Earth you decided to pay an impromptu visit to the man? Or do you try and make friends with every Death Eater you come across?’

The boy’s head snapped up. Of course, Potter wouldn’t have recognized the Dark Mark.

‘Why were you there?!’ he raised his voice, hoping to distract him. It worked, though a little too well: Potter’s eyes clouded with tears.

‘I was just trying to find out—I was trying to find out who he was, because he—I thought maybe he was dangerous—’

‘You thought he was dangerous? And so you decide to go visit him at his hotel? Exactly how stupid are you, Potter? What would have happened had he woken up? If he’d woken up before I got there?’

Potter swallowed around a whimper, then shook his head. For a quiet moment, he seemed to be bracing himself, until at last, he stared Severus right in the eye.

‘What did you do to him?’ he asked, in a stronger voice than fit his circumstances.

‘What did I—I obliviated him.’ At the confused look, he explained, ‘I cast a spell that modified his memory so he wouldn’t remember that he happened upon us. I was sure he would readily betray your location if he saw gain in it, and as you might have forgotten, the point of this exercise is to avoid letting the Ministry know where you are.’

For some reason, this made the boy cry more.

‘Well, how was I supposed to know that?’ he yelled through the tears. ‘You didn’t tell me that’s why you were leaving!’

‘You weren’t supposed to know it, you were supposed to do as you were told! Let me make something entirely clear to you, Potter. Identifying hazards and dealing with them, that’s _my_ job. _Your_ job is to do as you’re told, and I am under no obligation to provide you with my reasons for giving an order.’

‘But—but if I don’t know the reason, then—’ he was fighting so hard against the tears that he could no longer talk around them. Severus felt a stab of pity. ‘—then how am I supposed to—to do it when I don’t even know—because you could be telling me something bad, and I’d just do it without thinking?’

The boy had a point, Severus realised. With how many people would likely try to hurt or manipulate him in the coming years, it might not be wise to encourage blind trust in authority—even if, as now, it would certainly have proven useful to Severus.

‘Very well,’ he sighed. ‘I will make an effort to explain the reasoning behind my decisions where they immediately concern you. But you will not wander off on your own without permission, especially to track down potential threats. I trust you have enough of a brain that you can figure out the reasoning behind that one yourself.’

Potter looked at him like he had never been more shocked in his life. Severus felt a little offended.

‘Your answer, Mr Potter.’

The boy sniffled, which did nothing for the snot coming out steadily from his left nostril. ‘Yeah, okay,’ he said nasally.

‘Good. We won’t be in Berlin until five. Lie down on the seats there and sleep. And for heaven’s sake, blow your nose before you choke.’

Potter took the tissue without argument. ‘I don’t think you’re allowed to lie down on those,’ he said seriously between blows.

‘Exercising your new power already? How detailed does my showcase of reasoning need to be for you to go to sleep and give me some peace?’

That got a chortle out of him. Children’s ability to swing right back from tears was undeniably impressive: Severus felt like he’d been in the same mood for the last ten years.

‘Okay, but if someone comes and gets angry, I’ll say that you told me to,’ Potter warned as he lay down on his side, taking up barely three seats of the four: he really was quite small. He winced, rubbed at his shoulder, then rolled onto his back to take some weight off it.

‘What’s wrong with your shoulder?’

‘Oh, nothing. Just from when you were grabbing me, I think.’

Severus grabbed him again, this time by the other shoulder, and kept him still as he hitched up his sleeve. Through the static that had filled his head, he told himself if he found a bruise, he would not be sick.

There wasn’t a bruise. Severus breathed.

‘Move it up and down,’ he said, mouth dry. ‘Roll it.’

He managed both, with only a small wince toward the end.

‘Good,’ Severus said, though he didn’t think it was, actually. ‘You’ll live.’

‘Yeah, like I’ve told you,’ Potter pointed out. He seemed to notice this did nothing to ease Severus’s scowl, because after a searching look, he added hastily, ‘Sir.’

Severus didn’t think he could look at him anymore. He stood, then pulled his coat off and gave it to the boy to use as a duvet, watching only from the corner of his eye as he fussed with it. Then, he reached above the door to where the light switch was, and threw a blanket of darkness over the compartment.

Storage units and the blinking lights of a distant motorway sped past them. Air blew up from beneath the window, and Severus soon had to pull on a second shirt. He was thinking about that time when he and Lily had spoken of what kind of parents they would be. It must have been in their fourth year, he thought, though he did not know really. They’d been old enough to see younger children as essentially different, but young enough that they still spoke as friends, and that it was not yet awkward to mention anything remotely to do with the future.

They were fourteen, so it had been a silly game. Lily had said she would never bathe her children, because she would own a house by the lake and she’d just send them in there to swim. Severus had told her she would be entirely irresponsible and so erratic that by two years of age, her children would be tying _her_ shoes. Lily had agreed that was probably true. Then, she’d told Severus that he would be neurotically overprotective and entirely too easy to manipulate, so his children would be spoiled beasts that walked all over him and then, he was going to be grateful to her that she had some children to lend him that could help with the shoe-tying.

He had judged then she’d been only trying to tease him, ignorant in the moment that fatherhood was a fraught topic for Severus. Now, he thought she’d known exactly what she was doing: she’d extrapolated from his character a prognosis of behaviour in complete disagreement with the models his father had provided, but exaggerated it into obvious flaws so it struck credible still. He remembered it had worked: he had imagined, that day, some distant future in which he _did_ have entirely spoiled and smothered children. He had thought, even, that he would in any case be a better parent than Lily, since he’d be able to remember he had children for more than three minutes at a time.

And now, well. She’d died for her child, and he’d found himself balancing on the tightrope of physical abuse with impressive finesse. Nothing at all in their lives had turned out the way they’d planned it at fourteen. It never did for most people, he knew, but he’d always believed deep-down that he and Lily were _not_ most people.

‘What’s a Death Eater?’ a voice whispered.

Severus cleared his throat. ‘A follower of the Dark Lord.’

In the dark, he could see the white in the boy’s eyes, blinking up at him. Severus felt all of a sudden like he was looking into the future: like the boy lying opposite him wasn’t a boy anymore, but the saviour of the wizarding world, issuing orders or asking Severus for advice or pronouncing him a traitor. There was no way of knowing how he would take to it. No way of predetermining his choices despite what Albus seemed to believe.

He looked out of the window again. The train rattled and leaned left-side as it raced past a spur in the tracks. His stomach churned with some directionless concern. A part of him wanted to speak with Albus again, to tell him about it all, to ask him which choices were the right ones.

‘Does the Dark Lord mean Voldemort?’

‘Yes, but you’re not supposed to say his name. Now go to sleep.’

‘Okay.’

Severus closed his eyes. Over countless nights seamed with this strange fear without a name, he’d found it was easier to remember Lily’s face when his eyes were all the way shut. It took a while, but eventually, he knew it would carry him off into—

‘Good night.’

‘Good _night_ , Potter.’

—carry him off into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think we can reasonably term that progress, can't we?  
> Thank you all for reading, reviewing and leaving kudos. All of these make me hugely happy.  
> See you in Berlin on Saturday!


	9. Eight: Berlin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _If he hadn’t been so stupid, maybe he could be back in Amsterdam right now, sleeping soundly in a real bed, and then after that, maybe he could get more of those little doughnuts if he told Snape he’d pay him back later. As it stood, there was no bed and no doughnuts, and everything was horrible. ___

**Eight: Berlin**

Harry’s first and foremost impression of Berlin was the mist. It didn’t feel to him like the mystical, thrilling mist of mystery stories or the Hogwarts grounds at morning practice. This here was the dull fog of sleep and damp, of it being too early for anything to open, of dawn breaking painfully slow and inconsequential in the dim of a city covered with grey clouds.

They brushed their teeth in the men’s room of the station, which smelled of piss and cigarettes. Snape checked every cabin, then took out his mirror and spoke to Dumbledore about what they should do: there wouldn’t be any trains to Stockholm for hours, and Snape didn’t want to alter their itinerary. Around the time Harry had finished gurgling and was trying to pry some of the crusted gunk from his eyes, it was decided they weren’t risking too much by waiting until the ten o’clock train to Stockholm.

With nowhere to go, they treaded through the morning fog, aimless and quiet. Even though the bobbing of the train had eventually sent Harry to sleep, he’d caught maybe two hours all in all, and he felt so worn out after everything that had happened the previous night that talking, or thinking, or even feeling one way or the other seemed like too much effort. His brain was a fog, too. Everywhere he looked, he saw shuttered doors, and graffitied concrete, and strange people in leather and fishnet swaying on their feet as they made their way home after a night of clubbing. He _hated_ Berlin.

If he hadn’t been so stupid, maybe he could be back in Amsterdam right now, sleeping soundly in a real bed, and then after that, maybe he could get more of those little doughnuts if he told Snape he’d pay him back later. As it stood, there was no bed and no doughnuts, and everything was horrible. Harry wanted to sleep and he wanted to eat and Snape didn’t seem to care about either, probably because he was a vampire and didn’t have human needs, or maybe he was still angry with Harry and intended to starve him half to death in retaliation.

Around eight, they made their way back to the train station. To one side of the building, a café had just opened: it stood as a barrack made entirely out of corrugated sheet, and the tables set out in front were marked with paint and old grease. But the smells were terrific.

Harry deliberated on his choice long enough for Snape to grow impatient and just order for him again, exactly as planned. He’d got fresh buns and ham and cheese and strawberry jam, and once he’d started on them, he decided maybe things weren’t as horrible as he’d thought. At least he seemed to have figured out how to manage Snape a little better. And even though he was exhausted, it would take eighteen hours on the train to get to Stockholm, Snape had told him, so he could sleep plenty there; and he knew where he was, he realised, and where he was going, and Snape seemed pretty on top of things so maybe the wizard police _wouldn’t_ catch them after all.

‘I’m going to go in and buy our tickets,’ Snape told him once the waitress had collected their plates. ‘Stay here and try not to fall asleep.’

Harry straightened in his chair. Maybe his blinks had been coming in a little slower than usual, but hey _._ ‘I’m not falling asleep.’

‘Oh? Does that mean you want to come with me?’

Harry was wide awake, but he also _really_ didn’t fancy moving. ‘I can stay,’ he said.

‘As I thought.’

Snape stood, then deliberated a moment before pulling out his mirror. He slid it across the table toward Harry. ‘Keep this with you. You’re unlikely to need it at all, but in case of emergency, call the Headmaster.’

‘But I thought I wasn’t supposed to do magic?’

‘This is ancient magic. I don’t know of a single Auror with the skills to trace it, and waking the mirror requires only a sliver of your magic to work. It’s similar to the wandless magic you caused mayhem with before you came to Hogwarts, and as you know, accidental magic isn’t traceable.’

Harry hadn’t known that, actually, but he tried to make his nod as sage as if he had.

‘Uh, how do I turn it on?’

‘You don’t turn it on, Potter, you wake it. Just put your hand around it with the intention of establishing contact with Professor Dumbledore and it will listen to you. But be warned that if I find out you’ve been using it for any purpose other than emergencies, I will be severely displeased. Is that clear?’

‘Yes,’ Harry said through clenched teeth. All of this asking if things were clear was getting pretty annoying: Harry wasn’t a complete dolt, he understood what Snape was saying when he actually took the time to explain things properly. Also, what did he think? That Harry would use this ancient magic mirror to make prank calls?

That was a funny thing to imagine now that he’d thought of it. He and Dudley had played like that sometimes when Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had gone to the cinema and they were home alone. They would call a bunch of random people from the yellow pages to tell them stupid things, like that Harry and Dudley were the person’s lost twins or illegitimate children or pizza delivery guys. He and Dudley didn’t tend to get along, and even saying that much was an understatement, but Dudley thought Harry had the best ideas for who they could pretend to be.

He rocked on his chair back-and-forth as he waited, pleasantly full and drowsy, and wondered if Snape would be a good person to prank call. Some people got worked up over the phone and threatened them with terrible repercussions, and those were the best kind of calls; Snape was especially talented in coming up with creative threats, Harry thought, but when it came to it, he didn’t follow through on them much, which meant he would probably be a good pick.

The mirror was warm in Harry’s pocket. Berlin was waking up, and with it, some energy in Harry: it felt snug and sparkly, especially where his feet touched the concrete. The sun drew shapes on the back of his eyelids.

‘Excuse me. Are you here alone?’

It was a woman, dressed in dark blue like a security guard or a train conductor or some such thing. Harry quickly stopped rocking the chair.

‘Uhm—I’m waiting for someone. He’s just gone to get tickets.’

‘Do you want to come and wait inside? They need the table for the other customers.’

She had a nice, deep voice and a warm smile, so Harry wanted to do as she’d asked. However, he also wanted to not get strangled. ‘I’m supposed to stay and wait here,’ he explained. ‘Maybe I can just go sit on the kerb if—’

‘Nonsense. How about you come with me to the security booth at the station? It’s right by the exit. If this person you’re with heads out, we’ll spot him easily, alright?’

Realising she wouldn’t relent, Harry nodded lamely. ‘Yeah, alright.’

‘Come on then. What’s your name?’

‘Harry,’ he told her as he followed. Something compelled him to slow his steps as much as he could. His brain replayed, unprompted, the whole of the exchange, over and again like a damaged tape.

Wasn’t it strange, that she’d known straight away that he didn’t speak German? Her English was very good, too: she had some sort of accent, but she didn’t break between words or say them in the wrong order the way Ms Hetzel had done sometimes. And when she referred to Snape, she’d said, _the person you’re with,_ not _your dad,_ which would have been the thing that most people assumed.

Individually, any of those were probably not so odd, but together, they were a persistent itch. Just as they’d approached the main door to the station hall, Harry drew to a complete halt, feeling stupid but also like he was doing the right thing in the circumstances.

‘I really think I should just wait outside,’ he said, looking back at the café bustling with people. ‘I’ll just—’

A man emerged from behind a pillar. There were people in the café outside and there were people inside the station, but here, in this tiny strip of no-man land between one and the other, the three of them were hidden from view by pillars and banners and the shade, and it made it all too easy to—

He kicked out just as the woman pinched his elbows together, pulling him flush to her with a hand on his mouth. It muffled his scream well enough.

‘Bloody hell, Lamotte, help me, will you?’ she was saying.

‘He’s half your size, Adeyemi. Just drag him in here and I’ll bind him—someone might still see if I pull my wand now—’

‘Kid, relax, okay? We’re not going to hurt you—’ Harry kicked again. ‘Quentin, I swear, if you don’t take him from me—’

With a sigh, Quentin made a motion as if to help, but he was too late: Harry had found enough purchase on the ground that when he jerked his head back, it made contact with Adeyemi’s nose with an audible _thwack,_ and her arms unwound on instinct.

He jumped between Quentin’s grasping hands, then slipped in his haste and fell face-forward, catching himself on the kerb with a wheeze—he yanked the mirror out of his pocket, clamped his knuckles around it and said it in his head, _please Dumbledore I need to call Dumbledore wake up wake up—_

The mirror shattered into a dozen pieces.

For the length of a breath, Harry stared at what was left of it in his hand, nothing in his mind beyond the sinking feeling of dread. Then, the breath left his lungs and he realised someone was grabbing his shoulder—so he turned and threw the shards into Quentin’s face.

‘Ah, _damn it—_ bloody hell—’

‘Potter, we’re not going to hurt you, we just need you to come with us and have a little chat with the Minister, alright?’

‘No, thank you,’ Harry said, scrambling up and then lunging into a sprint, even as Adeyemi reached for him again—she got only the zipper of his knapsack, and Harry loosened his shoulders so it could be wrenched off his arms, leaving it in her clutches as he sped forward, not really knowing where he was headed—

But there was sun here and there were people, and Harry yelled, ‘Help!’ because then, surely, if all these muggles were watching, they couldn’t pull out their wands.

‘Stop!’

Harry zapped between cars. He heard them honk behind him, and he heard voices yell out things in German, and then he jumped over a little terrier held on a leash by an older woman with a huge nose, and then he felt a rush of hot air—

‘What the—what the hell are you doing, Quentin?!’

Harry turned. The dog had collapsed, stock-still and unblinking like Neville had been when Hermione cast a _Petrificus Totalus_ on him that time.

‘It wasn’t me!’

‘You’ve literally got your wand out!’

‘Yes, but I didn’t _use it—’_

Quentin reached him first, his legs longer and faster than Harry’s. Harry stumbled to get away and his head conked against the lamp post, but he clutched the pole and held himself up, and then as Quentin reached for him again, another rush of hot air and—

‘Quentin!’

—a rubbish bin just to the side of Harry exploded—

‘Okay, that one really _wasn’t me_!’

Harry steadied himself, aimed, and kicked the wand straight out of Quentin’s hand. It made an arch in the air before falling into the middle of traffic, under the wheels of a passing motorbike, to screams and yells and _sparks_ —

But Harry never saw what happened next, because just then, out of nowhere, arms snaked around his torso and stomach, and he was being pulled back against someone’s body, and then pulled somewhere else: up, down, through the eye of a needle and inside out, his breath clutched in his throat and his stomach in a knot, until Berlin was no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has left kudos and comments!  
> I'm not telling you where we're going on Wednesday, but it's fair to say we're going wildly off Severus's ideal itinerary...


	10. Nine: Orava Castle to Zakopane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A forest in the middle of nowhere, Severus’s position as a spy compromised, Aurors on their trail and now no way of contacting Dumbledore. He turned from Potter, not wishing for him to see the expression on Severus’s face. ___

**Nine: Orava Castle to Zakopane**

Newhaven to Paris. Paris to Brussels. Brussels to Amsterdam, Amsterdam to Berlin, Berlin to Stockholm, Stockholm to Helsinki.

Except that they were nowhere near Stockholm. They were instead in the middle of the forest in the middle of fucking nowhere. So much for Severus’s itinerary mantra.

And then, the Ministry had to go and send Lamotte, of all people—Merlin, if he’d caught even a glimpse of Severus’s shadow, he would have recognised him on the spot, and then Severus was _done_ : once news had spread that he’d been aiding and abetting Dumbledore’s folly against Lucius Malfoy’s schemes, what hope of credibility did he hold with the pureblood faction? The young Auror with Lamotte—Adeyemi, he’d called her—perhaps she’s been there solely on the Ministry’s orders, though even that much Severus could only guess. But it was entirely inconceivable that Lamotte, with his standing invitation to Malfoy Manor, would have joined in on Lucius’s plot unaware of what Lucius’s plot _was_. They were all of them so wrapped up in one another, the whole of the pureblood arm of the Death Eater and Sympathizers circle, that if Severus turned one against him, he was effectively turning them all.

No. There was no benefit to panicking. He didn’t know if he’d been spotted. His future might be within his grasp still, not slipping through white-knuckled fingers.

‘Where are we?’ Potter’s voice held only the hint of a tremor, eyes cautious on Severus as he removed and then folded the Invisibility Cloak. Impressive.

‘I’ve Apparated us to Northern Slovakia.’

‘Uh—why?’

He tugged on the boy’s chin to get access to the back of his head, where it had struck against the lamp post. There wasn’t any blood.

‘You must visualise the location you wish to Apparate to, which can be near impossible if you have no real memory of the place. I don’t know enough about Stockholm to attempt it, and that castle over there, that’s Castle Orava, where I attended a potions masters’ conference years ago. Give me the mirror, I must inform the Headmaster of what transpired.’

‘I don’t have it.’

Dread stuck thick in Severus’s throat. ‘You’ve lost it?’

The boy looked to the side. ‘Yeah, they—when they grabbed me, they took it. Or maybe it fell, I’m not sure.’

A forest in the middle of nowhere, Severus’s position as a spy compromised, Aurors on their trail and now no way of contacting Dumbledore. He turned from Potter, not wishing for him to see the expression on Severus’s face.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Yes, well,’ Severus scrabbled for some thread of hope but was finding none. They were going to lose their way and die here, and then their bodies would be eaten by bears. ‘Never mind. The important thing now is that we keep moving, some Aurors are trained in Apparition tracking. We’ll get up to the castle and catch a bus there. Come on.’

The castle loomed overhead. They would have to climb up the mountain a good deal, and they were both sleep-deprived: they needed to get a start now, while they were still high on adrenaline.

Severus had made it maybe ten steps when he realised the boy wasn’t following.

‘Potter!’

Potter stood frozen to the spot, eyes blown wide.

‘We have to go back!’

‘What—’

‘We can’t go, we have to go back to Berlin, the lady—she took my knapsack off!’

‘Your knap—Potter, for heaven’s sake, we’ll buy you a new knapsack. I have your wand and your cloak, everything else can be purchased when we—’

He realised his mistake a beat before Potter shouted it.

‘No, we can’t! I had my album in there!’

If there had been room in Severus for any more dread, that would have taken care of it. ‘Potter—’

‘No! I’m not going anywhere without my album, take me back!’

‘I will not take you back—I’m sure your aunt has copies of the photographs—’

‘No, there are no copies! They were my only pictures, I’m going back!’

‘We _can’t go back_!’ Severus bellowed, and was struck suddenly by an ache so vivid, it nearly doubled him.

He did his best to breathe through it.

‘Look, Potter,’ he said. It sounded wet in his ears. ‘I’ll get you photographs when we’re back in England.’

‘Don’t lie to me!’

‘I’m not lying. I was friends with your mother and I still have some photographs of her somewhere. And your—your father, well, I don’t have any of him, but I know someone who does. Now will you come with me?’

He was fairly certain writing Lupin ten years after they’d last spoken, only to request photographs of James Potter, would lay waste to any sense of dignity or self-esteem he’d developed over that time, but if it got the boy _moving_ —

‘You were friends with my mother?’ Potter blinked owlishly at him. ‘What was she like?’

_A nightmare_ , he thought, _like you_. He was already regretting ever opening his mouth.

‘I will tell you about her once we’ve got to a place where it is safe to do so.’

‘You have to promise.’

‘I promise,’ Severus said, tasting acid.

The boy deliberated for a moment. Severus sincerely hoped he’d relent: he remembered well enough James Potter’s toxic obstinacy, and had spent long enough teaching children to dread pre-teen tantrums, and then Lily, of course, Lily might not have appeared stubborn, but only because she would never have acknowledged any outcome in which she didn’t get what she wanted—unless he got the boy on board, they would not be going anywhere. Potter was small, but not so small that Severus could carry him up the mountain kicking and screaming.

Birds trilled in the tall conifers above them, naturally disinclined to read the room. The air smelled like woodsmoke and morning dew.

‘No,’ the boy decided finally, a shadow over his face. ‘You’re just saying that because you need me to go with you.’

‘I—what do you want me to do, Potter, vow an Unbreakable Vow?’

Potter bit his lip. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘What’s an Unbreakable Vow?’

Severus had an idea. ‘It is a magical vow that once made cannot be broken, or the one who breaks it will be punished by death. The ritual is easy enough to perform.’

He waited as the boy reflected, eyes narrow and bleeding suspicion. Of course, Potter’s doubts were entirely founded: the vow required a spell which they could not cast without triggering the tracker, and it needed three people. Severus was lying through his teeth.

‘Okay,’ Potter decided. ‘Yes.’

‘Very well,’ Severus said. He kneeled on the forest floor. ‘Take my hand. I, Severus Snape, hereby vow—’

‘No, wait, stop!’

Severus had a feeling this was going to be a long day.

‘What if something happens and you can’t do it? Like, what if you get really hurt and have to go to the hospital, or—’

‘That can be a clause of exception in the vow.’

‘But we won’t be able to think of everything!’ The boy had gone right back to hysterical. ‘And I don’t want you to die!’

This wasn’t working, Severus realised. It was time for a dramatic shift in approach.

‘Listen to me, Potter,’ he ordered. ‘You have a choice to make. You can either accept the risk that I _might_ not give you what you want, and come with me so we can find a safe place where you will eat, sleep and calm down. Or you can choose to stay here—’

‘No, don’t leave,’ Potter demanded, which Severus understood was not a decision but merely instinct.

‘ _You_ have a choice, but I do not, because I will not leave you. I would much prefer that we find a safe place to continue this discussion, but if you decide to stay, I will remain here with you. However, I will be displeased, and _certainly_ not in the mood to fulfil any additional promises. Do you understand?’

‘Yes,’ Potter said, sounding rather disappointed about it.

‘So, which will it be?’

‘You don’t have to make me _say it_!’

Any sense of victory he might have felt was soon undercut by the veil of upset descended on them both. Potter walked behind him in a sullen silence which he was somehow able to infuse with a huge volume of meaning. Severus hated that it was working. He was feeling more and more ill-at-ease with every tense minute that passed, and found himself searching for a neutral thing to say.

When they scaled a steep hill, torn up with gargoyle roots and pointed rocks, Potter refused to take the hand Severus offered to help him up.

Once they emerged from the thickest of the trees, the path disappeared into a field of tall grass spotted purple with flowers. Where Berlin had been heavy with clouds, the sun was vicious here, and only a few minutes in, the tip of Severus’s head felt like it was on fire.

‘Watch where you’re going,’ he told the boy, reminded suddenly of stocking up on a local potion ingredient the last time he was here. ‘Adders like to hide in the grass. Their venom can be deadly.’

The boy said nothing.

‘Did you hear what I said?’

‘Mhm.’

‘Then I’m going to need an acknowledgment of the fact.’

‘I said I heard you!’

Severus supposed the shy child grace period was well and truly over.

They reached the castle by midday, having encountered no deadly adders or cannibalistic bears. They spent another hour sitting by the gravel road directly beneath the bus stop sign, nurturing their heatstrokes. Severus was convinced this would all end in another bout of sickness for the boy, this time coupled with fainting and fever, because that was precisely what they needed right now.

The bus driver complained a little over being paid in the wrong currency, but after a bout of strained arguing in two very distinct languages, he threw a glance at Harry and waved them to pass, refusing Severus’s handful of bills altogether.

He wasn’t even sure where they were going. That was likely for the best: he didn’t know how exactly the Aurors had tracked them to Berlin, but a measure of erraticism would at least muddle the waters.

They got off in Zuberec some two hours later. Among maps showing hiking and skiing trails at the cramped tourist information across the road, Severus found one worn volume with road maps of Europe. Having little desire to argue over currencies again, he threw the cloak over himself and snagged it off the shelf.

‘You _stole it_?’

It was the first thing Potter had said to him in hours. His tone alone spoke volumes on what he thought of such an act.

‘No,’ Severus said easily.

‘Yes, you did.’

‘You were outside, you couldn’t have seen what I might or might not have paid for.’

‘But—’

‘Perhaps there is a lesson here about admitting to wrongdoing in the face of little evidence. If you’d learnt it a little earlier, maybe we wouldn’t be in this mess.’

‘You mean with Mrs Bones. But that’s different, because she’s a judge or something. I wasn’t going to lie to a judge. That’s—perjury,’ Potter said, like a word of the week calendar. ‘And it’s wrong.’

The only bench in the tiny square was occupied by locals, gossiping loudly over their beers, so they lay the book open on the pavement below the bus stop sign. Severus traced lines over cities and towns whose names he couldn’t pronounce, searching for a flash of recognition. Potter sat under the Invisibility Cloak: whether or not Lamotte had recognized Severus, they would be looking for an adult and a child, not a man travelling alone. Only this way, Severus couldn’t see the boy either, and had to trust he was where he’d been told to be.

It only made sense to go north, Severus decided. They’d board the first bus to Zakopane, get off before the Polish border and cross it on foot, get on the following bus to Zakopane and hopefully reach it by nightfall. From there, they should be able to get a train to Warsaw, and Severus was hoping that all capitals were connected with one another _somehow_.

He had the distinct feeling that he shouldn’t be making these decisions alone, that he hadn’t thought of something essential and would inevitably fail, and that the consequences of that failure would swell and trickle into the future until he was costing Albus his war.

With Potter invisible, the minibus driver wasn’t feeling as generous, and Severus spent much of his allotment of German marks convincing him he was worth a trip to currency exchange. With a mere seven seats altogether, the van was packed, and Severus had to distract the construction worker sprawled massively next to him with a dropped wallet, so he could make a grab for where he thought Potter was and set him in his lap.

A quarter of an hour in and he could not comprehend how he’d ever thought the boy small. He was trapped between one hot weight on top of him and another to his side—the minibus seat struggled to contain the construction worker, who was burning some sort of big-man-fever. Squashed against the window and breathless, Severus worked against every instinct that compelled him to jab Potter between the ribs or shake him or _something_ , anything to make him sit still and ideally not ram any bony part of his body into Severus’s assorted soft spots. The bus skidded over holes in the road until his heart felt like it had moved up to his ears.

When he thought of Lily, it was a desperate search for some old hurt, a drowning man’s raft out of the present. He’d been reminded of Lupin, and so he followed that path, knowing already where it led yet feeling each turn as if it has been a novelty: when they returned to Hogwarts for their sixth year, Severus out of necessity spent more time with Avery and Lamotte, and said things about Lily that he could not believe—though he never referred to her by name. He felt like she knew. She had branched out of her usual circle of friends to include the werewolf, and she did not talk to Severus, only sent him looks, sometimes, through the crowd, and he would look back, and that felt like more than every conversation any two people had ever had, put together.

She spent much of the summer before seventh year visiting with the Potters, on personal invitation from Lupin. In September, she came back with a ring.

Severus told her she was out of her mind.

‘You know how these pureblood families are,’ she shrugged. ‘Your dear friend Quentin’s been engaged since last spring.’

But Lamotte wasn’t a muggleborn girl from a poor family marrying into a legacy of wealth and prestige.

James Potter was ever so gracious about it, of course. Severus had heard him once, talking about it to Black and some Ravenclaws who’d come to congratulate him on the engagement. It didn’t bother him that she was a muggleborn, it made no difference, he respected her all the more for it, actually. ‘The duality of that experience,’ he’d mused. ‘Living in that overlap of two worlds, I feel like it makes for a richer personality.’

Well, bully for him. It was no hard feat, to respect Lily for her lack of status when you had status coming out of your nose. Severus, half-blood, rough-spoken and smelling of alcohol and canned food, was a mere step of the ladder ahead, and using her to hoist himself up had been a burning necessity. It was a luxury, he thought, being good to her, and Severus had been all out of spare change.

He told her she’d sold herself, as if he hadn’t been passing his nights thinking of things to say that Lamotte would like. She didn’t call kettle, but only because her eyebrows did it for her.

‘What do you want me to do?’ she asked. ‘I can’t join your little gang, and not just because I have a soul, but because they would all prefer me _dead_. So, what do you want me to do instead, Severus?’

‘Try not marrying James Potter.’

She raised her chin. ‘I’m in love,’ she declared. ‘It’s made me stupid. And I’m still not even half the idiot you are, and you know what the worst thing is? It’s that they’re the people who’ve done this to you. These rich, pureblood families, they’re the ones who’ve made you feel unwelcome in wizarding society, and then what do you do to fight back? You run straight to them. The illness and the cure—’

‘And what’s my alternative, Lily? Fuck another loose cannon kid with a pureblood family desperate to marry him off?’

‘You know what, if you have to, yeah!’

She’d startled a laugh out of him. And then she laughed, too. And suddenly, they were talking again.

The boy had fallen asleep. Lost in thought, Severus had missed the moment his body had gone limp, but for a short moment now, he felt the steady warmth of shallow exhales on his chest, percussed by the construction worker’s snores.

After that, he didn’t really feel anything.

The trek across the border in the peak of summer heat was a fact of life, but he didn’t experience it. The sweat on his skin didn’t itch. The stuffy air of the evening bus to Zakopane was just air after all. He thought about Lily and Quentin and Valerian and James Potter, as he bought water in a grocery shop by the Zakopane bus station, as he lugged Potter up hill after hill and then back down, as the sun set and Potter finally pointed out a sign for free rooms written in half-baked English.

The room had a double and a small folding single for the boy. Severus was exhausted beyond belief, but when the owner, a tall woman with light-blue eyes and sun-weathered hair, told him where he would find currency exchange, he went without complaint, like the weight in his legs was not a thing that affected him.

He didn’t even worry about Albus or Lamotte or Lucius anymore, and didn’t so much as blink when he told the boy he was too tired to be pestered about the promised stories of his mother. None of it felt at all real in any case.

As he lay in bed, body half asleep but mind unrelenting, he listened to the hoots and the winds of the mountain, and barely heard them.

‘Professor Dumbledore said it was my mum’s love that killed Quirrell when I touched him.’

Severus peered at the folding bed set by the far wall. What did the boy want him to say? That Lily had loved him? Were those the kind of stories he expected?

‘Because Quirrell had never loved anyone, he said,’ the boy added.

Severus had never been much into magical theory, and he wasn’t about to debate whether this was accurate. It certainly sounded poetic.

‘Do you think that’s true, sir?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Then I have to be careful,’ Potter whispered into the dark, ‘so I don’t touch anyone else I don’t know very well, in case they’ve never loved anyone either.’

‘He was trying to kill you, Potter.’

‘I know, but it’s just sad, I think. Because if he’s never loved anyone, then that means probably no one’s ever loved him, right?’

Severus wasn’t particularly interested in waging a philosophical debate with an eleven-year-old, especially not in the middle of the bloody night, but he felt a stir of a reaction to this, hot and urgent, and found himself saying, ‘Oh, did his mummy and daddy not love him? Does that give him a free pass on murder?’

‘No, but—’ the boy hesitated. He sounded painfully uncertain. ‘Do you think if someone’s parents don’t love them, then they’re going to grow up evil?’

‘I _think_ that research has found victims of childhood abuse are more likely to become abusers themselves, so if we extrapolate from that, then yes, Potter. I do think they’re more _likely_ to grow up “evil”.’

‘But you can still, I mean, someone can go and then find other people to love, like friends. That still counts, right?’

‘I am not saying they are doomed, I am saying it is—harder, for those with any deficit, to be good people.’ Severus stared at the ceiling. He could make out the faint outlines of leaves, drawn by the moon. ‘Be it a deficit of money, of support, or of love.’

He felt the statement lock in his throat as he pronounced it. He was dangerously close to something raw and unhealed in him that he could not say.

‘In any case, this seems like some instinctual reaction of your body to stress. That is usually the case with natural magic: our bodies reach for it when they are burning with adrenaline and desperate for defence. If you had touched Quirrell but hadn’t been fighting for your life, I find it unlikely that it would have done anything at all.’

‘Hmm, yeah,’ the boy yawned. ‘I’ve still got to be careful though. Just in case.’

The last thing he thought of before fading to sleep was the boy’s chin, dug carelessly into Severus’s collarbone on the minibus to Zakopane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> We are in Zakopane again on Saturday, and some big revelations are coming...


	11. Ten: Zakopane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _When he re-entered the room, Snape was sitting up, watching him. It was very creepy and very awkward, and Harry nearly ran to his bed to make it stop._
> 
> _‘Have you been sick?’_
> 
> _‘No,’ Harry said.  
>  ___

**Ten: Zakopane**

When Harry woke it was still dark, with that dusty darkness peppered into fog that often precedes dawn. He had kicked his sheets off sometime during the night and found himself shivering, uneasy on the heels of some dream he couldn’t remember, with a sour taste in his mouth and a dizzy head and, worst of all, wet, again.

All he wanted was to go back to sleep. Instead, he trudged out of bed and tiptoed to the bathroom. The harsh light made him squint. In the mirror, he looked dead.

Promptly, he realised he would not be able to change like he’d wanted to: his clothes were all back in Berlin. So was his album. He swallowed the tears and blew his nose, because there was nothing that could be done about any of it.

Maybe he could go back to sleep. He did not have dry clothes anyway, so it didn’t matter. He could pretend that nothing was wrong for a few hours and deal with the fallout in the morning proper.

When he re-entered the room, Snape was sitting up, watching him. It was very creepy and very awkward, and Harry nearly ran to his bed to make it stop.

‘Have you been sick?’

‘No,’ Harry said. He didn’t tell Snape what had really happened. He would find out eventually, of course, but Harry could at least avoid having to say it.

He kept his face pressed into the pillow, so he only heard Snape shuffle over, and sigh, and then the mattress dipped.

‘Sit up.’

Harry did, though he didn’t like it, and let Snape touch his forehead to check for a fever that wasn’t there. ‘I’m not ill,’ he reminded him.

‘You’re very warm, actually. It might be heatstroke. Does this happen often?’

Snape wasn’t asking about heatstroke, he knew, he was asking about the other thing but not saying what it was, which Harry appreciated. ‘No. It’s not happened in ages. I mean, that time in the first place we were, but other than that, not since I was like nine.’

He peered up at Snape to catch his smile. ‘Ages,’ he repeated after Harry, like it was funny.

For some reason, the fact that Snape was happy made Harry feel sad. He had to bite his lip not to start crying and hid his head in the crook of his elbow in case he did. His breaths were coming in wet and stuttered.

‘I—I’m not sure what to do to help you, Potter. What did your aunt use to do when this happened?’

A current of fear shot through Harry. ‘I don’t want you to do _that_!’

‘Very well, I won’t,’ Snape sounded a little affronted. ‘Tell me anyway.’

Harry _really_ didn’t want to, but he was too tired to be contrary. ‘She—she used to, uhm, make me put my face in it. Cause she said that’s what you’re supposed to do to dogs, I mean when they’re puppies, to teach them not to, you know, so maybe it would work for people, too.’

Silence answered him. Harry felt really stupid for speaking at all: it was a weird thing to tell someone, especially your teacher.

‘Was your uncle aware of your aunt’s use of this particular—method?’

‘Uh, I don’t know. It was only my aunt who changed sheets and stuff like that, so I’m not sure if she told him or not.’

‘I see.’

Snape didn’t say anything else, but he had Harry get up and then he gave him one of his shirts to use as a nightgown. When Harry came back from changing in the bathroom, his bed had been stripped and remade with the sheets from the old armoire in the corner. He saw in the breaking dawn that they were an intricate daisy pattern. They smelled of lavender.

The next time he woke, it was because the landlady had knocked on the door. He watched through slitted eyes as Snape collected the breakfast tray and then spoke with her a while in the corridor. He couldn’t make out very much beyond that Snape told her Harry was sick, which wasn’t true, and still Snape was always saying that.

Apparently, Snape had managed to convince not just the landlady but himself, too, because after he’d set his plate and tea on the little table by the window, he carried the tray over to Harry’s bed and let him have breakfast right there in his nest of blankets.

‘You know I’m not really ill,’ Harry told him.

‘You have heatstroke.’

‘No, I don’t.’

Snape ignored him and went to eat his breakfast by the window, facing the part of the room that Harry wasn’t in.

He was halfway through his blueberry cream bun when he remembered something.

‘Sir, yesterday when the wizard police caught us, was it you who cast those spells on the dog and the bins?’

‘We call them Aurors, not the wizard police.’

‘Aurors. It was you, sir, wasn’t it? Because the guy Auror was saying how it wasn’t him, and I didn’t see them coming from his wand, I don’t think.’

Snape didn’t even bother to turn around in his chair, which Harry thought was awfully rude.

‘Yes, it was me. I wanted to ensure the authorities of wizarding Germany would find out about the incident. If news reaches Britain that these Aurors attacked and pursued you in the middle of Muggle Berlin, it might discredit the Ministry and inspire sympathy toward you—it’s all politics, Potter. At this juncture, there is no need for you to understand it.’

‘I do understand,’ Harry wasn’t entirely sure he did. ‘I’m old enough to understand politics.’

‘I look forward to an impassioned debate before the next election.’ Snape stood, even though Harry could see there was still plenty left on his plate. ‘For now, I will go buy you clothes. Stay put.’

‘Why can’t I come? I don’t really have heatstroke.’

‘Whether or not you do is beyond the point, seeing as you’re currently wearing nothing but an oversized shirt. You will stay in bed and wait for me, or I promise you I will be severely displeased. Is that clear?’

It was clear, sure, but that didn’t mean Harry had to be happy about it. The room didn’t even have a TV. ‘You were supposed to tell me about my mum,’ he reminded him, feeling brave. ‘Or was that a lie?’

Snape glared at him. ‘I will tell you about her once you are no longer wearing my shirt.’

‘You’re just going to keep delaying it until I’ve forgotten. But I’m never going to forget.’

‘I have been foiled,’ Snape had lost all interest in the conversation. ‘Goodbye.’

The moment the door shut behind him, Harry got out of bed. He examined the food Snape had left on his plate: fresh tomatoes and cucumbers, and a bit of sausage, none of which looked very appealing to Harry. He snagged the last piece of bread from the tiny basket, though, to save for later.

For a while, he sat on the wide windowsill. The meadows behind the house dipped with the slope, then rose again where the next mountain began. Steel-grey crags dwarfed the horizon, some still glistening with winter snow. As he looked, Harry felt a thrum in his hands, one that slipped along skin to disappear into the crooks of his elbows. He squirmed under it; he thought this was what it felt like to be tickled.

A knock rapped on the door. It was the landlady, come to collect the breakfast tray.

‘You liked breakfast?’ she asked him. Harry felt a stab of impatience. A strange thought crossed his head that if she didn’t hurry up and leave him alone, he would touch his hands to her face and see what happened.

‘Yes, thank you,’ he said, trying to forget the thought even as he was thinking it. ‘The blueberry bun’s really good.’

‘I will bring another one. You want?’

Harry mostly wanted her to leave. Maybe it was just that he was standing before a stranger bare-footed and not wearing any underwear. But it would have been rude to say no, so he nodded.

‘Very sad, ill on your holiday. We have a room, a social room, with table tennis and games and books.’

‘I’m supposed to stay in bed,’ he said, for once grateful for it.

She hummed. ‘I bring games. You stay and feel better, okay?’

She did bring games: there was monopoly and memory matching, and an old box of draughts with shirt buttons for pieces; there were playing cards, and one of those electronic games with printed boards where you had to match words and pictures. Harry played draughts against an imaginary opponent for a while, reminiscing about playing chess with Ron in Gryffindor Tower, then got tired of that and napped, and by the time Snape _finally_ got back with clothes that were all at least a size too big on him, Harry was feeling decidedly frustrated. If he heard one more _is that clear_ from Snape, or if the man had the gall to demand Harry be grateful for the whale clothes, he was going to show him Harry could be _displeased_ , too.

‘Do not make that face,’ Snape warned him. ‘They’re good enough for now.’

‘Yeah, for a whale.’

‘I did not have your measurements, Potter. You’re a child, you’ll grow into them. And I do not appreciate the bratty attitude when I have spent the last two hours weeding my way through the heat in a strange city, where not a soul speaks any language I recognize, acquiring these items for you out of the goodness of my heart. Is that clear?’

Alright. Harry was done.

‘I’m _not_ getting dressed,’ he declared, then burrowed fully into the blanket to stress the point. Also because what he was about to say would come out much easier if he couldn’t see Snape looking at him. ‘Do you buy your clothes five sizes too big because one day maybe they’ll fit? No, you buy clothes that actually fit you, like all adults do—but just because I’m a kid, you think it doesn’t matter what I look like, and you don’t care that I might be embarrassed or whatever, because why would you, it’s not like I have _feelings_. So, I’m not getting dressed because I’m not going anywhere dressed like that. I’d rather stay in your stupid shirt since it makes no difference. And anyway, you won’t let me go anywhere because I have heatstroke, remember?’

‘So, your plan is to lounge about in pyjamas all day?’

‘Yeah, so what?’

He heard Snape swallow.

‘I thought we might both dress like civilised people and sit down to talk about your mother over tea.’

‘I don’t want to. I’m going to play board games in bed, I don’t have to be dressed for that.’

The silence stretched until he couldn’t take it anymore: he had to shift the corner of the blanket a little so he could peer up and gauge Snape’s reaction. Harry’s one eye and Snape’s pair of them met briefly: the man might have planning murder or a wedding and Harry wouldn’t have been able to tell which.

He quickly threw the blanket back over his head. It was nice underneath, if a little stuffy. The sun fell through the window and bathed the pocket of space a golden yellow.

‘If you’re staying in bed, then you don’t have to get dressed. But put on some socks.’

Harry was surprised enough that he found himself emerging from his hiding place and obeying before he realised what he was doing. He paused with one sock hanging halfway off his foot. ‘Aren’t I supposed to have heatstroke? I’m just going to be even hotter.’

‘Either get fully dressed or put the socks on, Potter.’

‘You’re supposed to explain your reasoning when you tell me to do something,’ Harry pointed out. ‘Your reasoning doesn’t make sense for the socks. First you say I have heatstroke, then you say I have to wear socks if I’m in bed, but if I’m staying in bed, how would my feet even get cold?’

‘For—’

Suddenly, Harry found himself on his back, legs hanging halfway off the mattress. Snape held the ankle he’d yanked as he forcibly pulled the sock onto his foot. The idea to kick flickered in Harry’s mind, but faded quickly when he was released.

‘Fine,’ he spat, reaching for the thick wool jumper Snape had bought him. ‘Then I’m just going to assume you want me to boil to death.’

He pulled the jumper on. It was knit in a black-and-white V-pattern, and so long that it pooled around Harry where he sat. It was real wool, too, scratchy and warm.

It had been less than a minute and he was overheating already, half from the jumper and half from an anger he didn’t understand. Snape had been annoying as always but not genuinely mean, and he’d even offered to tell Harry about his mum, but Harry had to go and say he preferred to play stupid board games. Even if Snape tried to tell him about her now, Harry wouldn’t be able to stand it, he’d have to cover his ears or force Snape’s mouth shut or start shouting, and he had no idea why—but the rage burned in his throat and in the back of his eyes.

And now, Snape was smirking at him, and he had no right in hell to do that.

‘It’s not funny!’ Harry yelled. The smirk did not budge. ‘Stop laughing at me!’

‘Would you prefer I start shouting?’ his tone was a harsh contrast to the smirk. ‘Because that is one alternative I see in the circumstances.’

‘No! I’ve not done anything wrong, _you_ said you would give me your reasoning, and it’s not my fault the clothes are too big—’

‘It is not, but you know very well you are being _extremely_ insolent. I am attempting to see humour in the situation, but my patience is running exceedingly thin—’

‘I don’t care! I don’t care about your patience or about if you’re displeased or not, and stop asking me _is that clear_ , I’m _not_ stupid and you’re never allowed to say that again, and stop telling me I’m ill all the time, I’m not ill and I don’t have bloody heatstroke, you’re the one with the heatstroke!’

‘Potter—’

‘No! I’m talking now, and—and you’re not allowed to laugh at me! You think it’s all so funny, yeah, because all the Aurors are after me and I’m just some kid, and I don’t know how to order at a restaurant and I have to wear whale clothes—so funny—and that I cried over some stupid album, but they were my only photographs and Hagrid’s only just given me them, so now he’s going to be angry with me for losing his present, but you don’t care—you think it’s so funny, that I still do _that_ at night and what my aunt did to me after, but it’s _not_ funny, so how about you just _shut up_?!’

His knees dug into his forehead. He was choking—the jumper scratched and trapped him, and where it was wet with fresh tears at the sleeves, it weighed and stuck and Harry _hated it._ He hated it, too, that Snape hadn’t said anything about what had happened during the night; he hadn’t expected Snape to react in any way at the time, and even now he wasn’t sure what he’d wanted, but he’d wanted _something_ , and he had got nothing at all _._

He tried to breathe. He couldn’t.

‘Alright,’ Snape said after a minute. ‘I agree with you, none of it is very funny at all. I will not laugh anymore. How about we take that jumper off you and you blow your nose on something that isn’t clothing, and then we’ll play one of your board games like you wanted. Is that agreeable?’

Harry felt too embarrassed to answer, but he lifted his arms as Snape tugged the wool over his head. He blew his nose into a tissue, then tried to dab his eyes with it, but there’d been too much of that watered-down snot that comes out when you cry, and the soaked paper only redistributed it all over his face, where it mingled with sweat and saliva. It was so disgusting it nearly made him start crying all over again.

‘Can I have another tissue?’ he whispered with his head down, not wanting Snape to see his face—preferably, he would never have Snape see his face again in his _life_.

‘Yes. Which game do you want to play?’

With shaking fingers, Harry pried open the box of memory: it would require the least amount of talking. ‘Can I take my socks off too?’ he asked his kneecap. ‘Just for a little bit, then I’ll put them back on.’

‘Yes. You don’t have to wear them if you’re warm.’

‘No, I’ll wear them, I’m just really hot right now because of the jumper.’

Snape was rubbish at memory. It was odd, since he seemed generally like a smart person; but Harry kept finding pairs and Snape picked up the same three cards over and again. By the time Harry had eight pairs to his name and Snape a measly one, he’d started feeling pretty bad for him, and purposefully missed matches to give him a chance. It was for naught: he won anyway, and easily, but couldn’t very well rejoice in the victory when he’d first yelled at Snape and then obliterated him playing a game for small children.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘We can play something else if you like.’

He was still too much of a coward to look up from his lap, but he felt Snape watch him.

‘You must allow me my opportunity for a rematch,’ he told Harry. ‘After, I can teach you a card game your mother and I used to play when we were children, if I can manage to remember it. But we should pace ourselves. We’ll be staying here for a few days, I think.’

‘I’m not ill,’ Harry reminded him.

‘Yes, so I’ve heard. But the next stage of our journey promises to be exhausting, and I for one am very tired already. No one knows we’re here, not even the Headmaster—it’ll do us both some good to rest while we can.’

‘Okay.’ Being stuck here for a few days playing board games actually sounded pretty good to Harry. ‘As long as it’s not because of me.’

‘Well, your heatstroke is of course a factor—’

‘I don’t have heatstroke!’

‘You don’t? I had no idea.’

‘I’ve told you—’

‘Ah, I suppose it wasn’t clear enough. Let me check again so there is no confusion: do you or do you _not_ have heatstroke?’

‘It’s not funny,’ Harry complained, though it was a little.

‘Of course not,’ Snape agreed, and started reshuffling the cards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> We're doing two chapters again on Wednesday since, you know, it's Christmas and so cheer must be spread. See you then!


	12. Eleven: Zakopane (II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> __
> 
> _He had convinced himself this was why they were still here: familiarity. Everything in Severus compelled him to leave so he could start doing something, but the boy was traumatised and exhausted, and needed the security of a familiar environment. This was why they stayed._
> 
> _It wasn’t entirely the truth, though his doubts Severus sensed merely as impressions, reluctant to put words to them._
> 
> ____

**Eleven: Zakopane (II).**

The garden swing gave a screech. The cushion on it was worn and stained beyond last repair, but somehow made more comfortable for it. Severus had spent hours here, lounged back with a view of the mountains and the overgrown garden, littered with wooden boards lacking verifiable purpose, sheets of old fabric and tractor tires, all the way to the fencing torn in half by a fallen tree.

The boy never joined him: he preferred to sit on the ground. Today, he was playing with the dog, an old mutt without an eye that looked like it belonged in a fighting ring and not anywhere near a child. But often, Potter simply lay on his back in the grass, awake but motionless, with his eyes shut loosely—he was, at those times, so scary to Severus that he could barely look at him.

Already, fear featured too heavily in his daily experience, and none of it was actionable: nowhere to put it, nothing to do. Ignorant of whether a wizarding community existed in the city, Severus had kept the boy to the house and its immediate surroundings, and gone hunting for magic on his own, desperate for news. But magical enclaves were designed to be secrets, and while he could press his hands to walls and trees, he was unlikely to chance upon a stronghold of natural magic with no clues where to even begin. He’d thought he felt some smears of untapped power in the very ground on the edges of the city, in the valleys and the crags, and even in the steep ascent to where their house rose on its hill; but it felt thin and large, like a stretch of silk, and half the time he wasn’t even sure if he’d only imagined it.

There was nothing to be done. He couldn’t find a magical community. Even if he had, contacting Albus through the Floo or owl post was too great a risk; and how likely was it that anyone in this corner of the world would lend him an issue of The Daily Prophet?

‘Did my mum have a dog?’

The boy had left the mangy thing alone and wandered over.

‘No. She owned a tortoise,’ Severus said, and felt at once the weight of it in the palm of his hand. He’d not thought of the tortoise in a long time. ‘He got lost on the Hogwarts grounds when we were in our final year.’

‘What was his name?’

‘She changed it every few months. He was called Harold the longest, I think.’

Potter grinned. ‘I’m named after a _tortoise_?’

‘Most certainly.’

‘Tortoises live a long time,’ he planted one knee on the swing. When it screeched under the added weight, he stood down as if burnt. ‘Maybe he’s still living on the grounds.’

‘I find that unlikely.’

‘Are you angry?’

Severus had been hearing that question daily for nearly a week now, whenever he was short with the boy or distracted or sleepy, or sometimes for no reason at all. Every time, annoyance warred with that hot pain in his chest, the one that hardly ever went away since the child had told him his aunt liked to put his face in piss from time to time.

He thought this was the sort of thing one needed to give voice to, somehow: that he needed to take a half hour for himself to cry or drink or scream about it. But they shared a room and Potter was uniquely tuned in to the slightest change in Severus’s mood.

‘I’m squinting in the sun, Potter,’ he told him, trying and failing to keep the exasperation out of his voice. ‘Why would I be angry?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Precisely.’

He closed his eyes. He could not do anything about this, either. Albus would need to be told, and a full investigation carried out, and the boy would go to someone else—He hated thinking about it and yet he wanted it to have happened already. But he couldn’t contact Albus.

And what of Potter’s future as the saviour of the wizarding world? Traumatised children did not easily grow up to be good leaders. He would need all the help he could get, and they needed an alternative plan in case he proved entirely useless—but how was Severus meant to provide that aid, when he didn’t know if his position had been compromised? He couldn’t do much about Lamotte right now either. He couldn’t do anything at all, it seemed, except sit on the bloody garden swing.

‘ _Now_ you’re angry.’

‘Potter, for heaven’s sake—’

‘Because you don’t like it when I ask you if you’re angry.’

‘I don’t like being served sauerkraut for dinner every bloody night, but I do not go yelling about that to the cook, do I?’

‘Yeah, but you’re still angry about it.’

‘I will be ending this conversation now, before I do genuinely become angry.’

The landlady saved him: she’d come back from the market, carrying a basket of food and a selection of plastic bags on top of that. Severus was usually out of breath by the time he’d climbed up to the house, and he slipped his shopping into the pockets of his coat, spelled to weigh hardly anything at all. Her daily feats spoke to some inhuman resilience.

She beckoned Harry over, to give him a little foil bag with his braids of cheese, salty and soft. They were most of what the child ate these days. Severus had enjoyed them the first few times, but by now was well and truly fed up. Children, he supposed, appreciated familiarity.

He had convinced himself this was why they were still here: familiarity. Everything in Severus compelled him to leave so he could start _doing something_ , but the boy was traumatised and exhausted, and needed the security of a familiar environment. This was why they stayed.

It wasn’t entirely the truth, though his doubts Severus sensed merely as impressions, reluctant to put words to them. He hated to think himself a coward, revelling in the contrived passivity of a place out of time, of not being _able_ to do anything even if he’d _wanted_ to.

When Lily and he spoke in their final year, it hadn’t been as friends. They’d argued, and they’d debated and they’d hurt, and they couldn’t stop: and that day the tortoise wandered off from where they sat by the lake, Severus’s friends had spotted them and yelled some things out, and he had told her to ignore it, and she’d laughed ugly.

‘Oh, they don’t bother me. No, I mean, Lamotte? I should be bothered by poor little Quentin? Please. That is the sad part, you know, Sev: not even that you’re hanging out with all these hateful, horrible people, but that these hateful, horrible people are all so _flaccid._ Oh, they’ll talk about how they want a revolution and how You-Know-Who’s the next big thing, and maybe they’ll even throw some money at it if daddy tells them it’s okay. But they’re never going to do anything. They’re not going to dirty their hands, they’re too busy wasting oxygen.’

She was, he’d thought then, probably right, at least about Lamotte and Avery and their whole gang: rich, pureblood, bored and ineffectual. But she was naïve, too, to think they were the sole faction at Hogwarts sympathetic to the Dark Lord. She wasn’t thinking about the half-bloods, the children of families sent into forget by scandal or financial destitution, about those that fit in between the extremes and aspired toward something greater. She didn’t think about the Ravenclaw, Valerian, and his little circle, or that kid Yaxley two years behind them, coming back after the summer to tell his fellow Slytherins stories of the vile things he’d done to the muggles from the neighbouring village.

‘Are you trying to egg me on?’ he’d hissed at her. ‘Because I’m not sure that’s such a smart idea.’

‘Oh, oh, and what are you going to do?’ she’d pulled her face into an exaggerated frown, giving a fake sniffle. ‘Call me a bad word? Please, Severus. I know you. You’re the kid hiding in the dark corner. You’re the kid who’ll never put his hand up in class even if you know the answer, because you know sooner or later someone else will answer for you. You’d rather stay silent and sulk than speak up, because well, it’s just so _tiring—_ get back to me once you’ve, I don’t know, killed your first muggle or whatever it is you people like to do with your free time. Then maybe I’ll start treating you and your friends like the threat that you so desperately wish you were.’

That night, instead of sitting with Lamotte, Severus had sat with Valerian and his friends.

He had never forgiven her for it.

But that was not the sort of story that Lily’s son was interested in hearing, and Severus soon found himself thinking instead about where Harold the Tortoise might have gone, and if the boy might be able to find him again if he tried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters today - make sure not to miss the other one!


	13. Twelve: Zakopane (III)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _  
> It was, after all, exceedingly easy to convince himself, even just in play, that Snape might have taken him hostage, just as it had been very easy to believe Snape had wanted to kill Harry: he spoke like a villain and looked like a villain, and didn’t ever do anything to try and not seem that way. So, if he was actually a completely decent person, why would he act like that—unless he wanted people to think that he was the villain?  
>  ___

**Twelve: Zakopane (III).**

It might have seemed like Harry was scoping out the social room for new games or books to alleviate boredom because he’d been left alone and told explicitly to stay inside the house, even though the weather was great and Rex always wanted to play more catch—but no, that wasn’t it at all, because Harry was on a mission.

Yesterday, he had tried pretending again that Snape had kidnapped him, and though he was soon distracted with dinner, it had got him thinking. It was, after all, exceedingly easy to convince himself, even just in play, that Snape might have taken him hostage, just as it had been very easy to believe Snape had wanted to kill Harry: he spoke like a villain and looked like a villain, and didn’t ever do anything to try and _not_ seem that way. So, if he was actually a completely decent person, why would he act like that—unless he _wanted_ people to think that he was the villain?

Harry’s thought journey was this: Quirrell had done his best to appear as meek and unthreatening as he could manage to lure everyone into thinking he wasn’t the sort of person who would ever work for Voldemort. If Snape was dressing and acting evil, what was he trying to hide? Why would it be profitable for anyone to hide the fact that you were good?

Well, it had helped them in Amsterdam. The Valerian man had thought that Snape was his friend and let his guard down so Snape was able to easily find out where he lived, and come back and erase his memory after. Was it possible that Snape was pretending to be a Death Eater to try and get information from real Death Eaters? If so, then it made sense why Dumbledore seemed to trust him so much: he was his spy, his double agent, his secret weapon.

Harry thought that would be cool. So now, he was trying to determine if anything in this room could help him trick Snape into pulling up his left sleeve, or taking his shirt off altogether, so he might check for the tattoo. So far, he hadn’t had any luck: the board games could all be played while fully dressed, and though the large fish tank by the door had given him the idea of swimming pools, he was not brave enough to ever suggest to Snape that they go to one.

If he got injured, maybe Snape would have to pull off his shirt and use it to stop the bleeding. Harry had seen it on TV. He wasn’t entirely certain his dedication to this plan went that far, but he still went into the garden to examine the broken fence and the wooden boards with the nails sticking out. He supposed this was more so he’d have something to do, though; he lacked any real inclination to impale himself on rusty wire.

Going out into the garden was already pushing the definition of _stay inside the house_ and Harry had not intended to take it further. But on the other side of the fencing was a luscious meadow, buzzing with bees and mosquitoes and scattered over with butterflies, and something in Harry was pulling him toward it. At a particularly insistent yank, he stepped over the fallen wire. It felt like the same tether as the one that had driven him to lie in the garden and flatten his palms against the ground until every inch of his body pressed down on that warm tingle, on the energy and the hum that he felt in his bones.

There didn’t seem to be any destination that the elusive call wanted him to reach. It was merely about putting one foot in front of the other, and again, about the crunch of tall grass under his shoes.

‘ _Human_.’

The voice had come from the grass.

He hunched. Among the stalks, the snake was tiny and frozen still, its pupils two black diamonds trained on Harry’s face.

‘ _Hello,_ ’ Harry said. ‘ _Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you.’_

_‘Don’t come any closer,’_ the snake warned. ‘ _I will put my teeth in you and you will be paralysed and dead long before you can touch my nest.’_

‘ _I’m not going to touch your nest. I’m a wizard, see? I can talk to snakes, so now I know you have a nest, and I won’t touch it.’_

The snake’s next hiss wasn’t a word, but it sounded to Harry like reluctance. This must be the adder that Snape had warned him about. Harry had always thought adders would be larger. He couldn’t imagine that such a small thing could do him much harm at all.

‘ _Humans don’t speak our language. You are strange and I don’t like you.’_

‘ _That’s not a very nice thing to say,’_ Harry pointed out. Feeling precarious on the balls of his feet, he placed a hand down in the grass for balance.

The snake lunged.

Harry jumped to his feet, easily shaking off the little body—but immediately, he found himself doubling over from the pain that erupted in his hand, spreading fast to his wrist and his forearm. Hadn’t they told them at school you needed to tie something around the limb, to stop the spread of venom? This would be a great time for Snape to whip his shirt off; even as he trembled with shock and fear, Harry chuckled at the idea.

He leaped back over the fence, ran into the garden where he ignored Rex’s beseeching bark, and thundered up the porch steps into the house. What should he do? Snape could probably fix him, but if he had to use magic for that, it would alert the Aurors again; and anyway, Snape wasn’t here. Could Harry afford to wait when he wasn’t sure how long he would be waiting for?

‘Harry?’ the landlady, Agata, peered out from the door to the canteen. ‘You are okay?’

Harry _knew_ he shouldn’t involve her. She would only insist on taking him to the hospital, and if Snape couldn’t find him when he got back, he would hit the roof. And at the hospital, of course, they would want to take Harry’s name, and what if that was bad, what if they could be tracked that way, too?

But his hand had swollen, bruised now and tender like a ripe plum, and Agata had been bringing him cheese braids and extra blueberry buns, and Harry didn’t want to die.

‘A snake bit me,’ he said, showing her the hand. ‘I think it was an adder.’

He didn’t think she knew what the word adder meant, but she’d understood snake and saw the state of his hand, and her eyes widened in alarmed realisation. ‘It’s okay,’ she told him. ‘You are okay.’

‘I don’t think I can go to the hospital. I mean, I—I’m not allowed to go alone, and, uh—’ he racked his brain for a reasonable excuse, until he remembered something Uncle Vernon had been complaining about when he’d taken Aunt Petunia and Dudley to Greece, ‘—we don’t have travel insurance.’

‘You don’t go to hospital,’ Agata assured him, before pulling him into the canteen. The tables had been set up for dinner already: forks and knives glistened on fresh napkins, ceramic bowls awaited soup. The smell of meat and mushrooms drifted in from the open door to the kitchen, so thick that Harry could taste it; and laid over that, the tangy stench of sauerkraut.

Agata examined the bite on Harry’s hand, pressing her fingers into the tight skin ever so lightly, but the shockwaves of pain travelled up his arm and down to his stomach, making him nauseous—sauerkraut, he thought quickly. He didn’t like it much either, but Snape normally liked everything, and he was an adult: it was much funnier when _he_ stared at it like it was the most repulsive thing he could imagine.

Another wave of pain rose in Harry, up to his ears and then overflowing, and then—then the pain was gone.

He felt instead that pull, that call, but with an intensity unrivalled by previous experience: the warmth pushed against his skin from the inside, tickling nerve endings and raising hairs, and then within his body, he felt it grazing organs: his liver, his lungs now breathing light, his heart beating faster and surer to the rhythm percussed by this mad thing, this energy in him.

He looked at Agata. It seemed to him that instead of his own reflection, he could see in her eyes mountains; and that he no longer smelled meat or mushrooms, but pine and wet earth and the wind.

He lifted his hand. The swell was gone. Only a partial redness lingered around the bite, fading quickly into his new tan.

Agata let out her breath.

The table broke in half.

Harry stumbled back, looking wildly between the two halves of solid wood. Agata did not acknowledge it at all, just took him by the shoulder to stop him running.

The last of the energy dissipated. Fear took its place.

‘What did you do?’ Harry’s voice shook. ‘How did you heal me?’

‘Mountain magic,’ she said uncertainly, then added something else in a language Harry didn’t know. ‘That’s how we say it. I don’t know it in English.’

‘How _do_ you know English?’ he asked, thinking of the Auror lady in Amsterdam.

‘My sister lived in England. Many, many years ago.’

‘Is your sister a witch, too?’

‘Yes. Not good with this, with mountain magic. She went to Cracow to learn about other magic, magic—wand magic, you say, and after she lived in England. So, I know you are magic, but it’s secret, yes? Don’t worry.’

‘Okay,’ Harry hesitated. ‘But you can do wand magic, too? Or just mountain magic?’

‘Just mountain.’

‘But you have a wand?’

Agata shook her head. She seemed amused with Harry’s insistence. ‘No, no wand.’

Harry’s terror dipped. Snape had said only spells cast with a wand could be tracked and natural magic could not. Whatever _mountain magic_ was, it certainly sounded natural. Mountains were nature, weren’t they?

Somewhere, a door opened. Harry and Agata turned as one toward the corridor, just in time to spot Snape’s figure going up the stairs.

‘Don’t tell him,’ Harry asked. ‘Don’t tell him about the snake or the magic, okay? Please.’

Agata examined him for a beat so long, Harry was sure she was going to say no. But then she nodded and smiled at him, with a smile that indicated she wasn’t happy, but had a bunch of complex feelings she didn’t want to say, so she’d gone for a smile instead. Harry didn’t have the time or inclination to unravel them.

By the time he and Snape came back to the canteen at dinner time, the broken table had disappeared. Snape said something about how it was missing, and Harry pretended not to hear, which probably made it seem like he was being rude. He had greater worries though: he was positive Snape would completely lose it were he to find out what had happened, and even though Agata didn’t even have a wand, they would have to leave immediately. Harry understood they couldn’t stay forever, but even if all he could gain was an extra day or two, it seemed worth it. He didn’t want to travel again, he didn’t want to eat and sleep in an entirely new house; he wanted Rex and table tennis and cheese braids and sauerkraut for dinner every night.

The room filled up quickly, packed tighter now that one table was out of commission. Harry liked to watch the children especially: there were maybe fifteen guests staying at any one time, but nearly all the families came with kids, and he amused himself by imagining what it must be like, to come on holiday with your parents and siblings.

‘Do you want soup?’ Snape was ladling thick, white liquid out of the large soup bowl set in the middle of their table. ‘Potatoes and sausage.’

‘Uh, I don’t know,’ Harry said. Snape asked him too many questions these days. Harry had much preferred it when he’d just made all the decisions for him.

‘It’s a simple question, Potter. You either want to try it or you want to skip it and wait for the second course.’

‘I really don’t mind,’ Harry tried softly. ‘I can have some, but I can wait, too.’

‘I understand as much, Potter, I am asking for your preference—’

‘I don’t have a preference! Or I prefer that you just tell me, so I don’t pick the wrong thing.’

‘There is no _wrong_ thing—’

‘Yes, there is,’ Harry interrupted, because it was true. ‘If I say I don’t want it, then you’ll get upset that I’m being fussy and when the second course isn’t good, you’ll tell me off for not having the soup. And if I say I’ll have some and it’s horrible, then you’ll say I shouldn’t have said yes when I didn’t want it in the first place.’

‘I see. Either choice results in calamity.’

‘Right,’ he nodded, satisfied that he was making him understand. ‘So, it’s best if you decide, because then at least it’s not really my fault.’

Snape smiled at him. It was another one of those smiles: the _not happy but feeling lots of other things besides_ smile. Harry could tell that some of Snape’s complexity of emotion was simple frustration, but beyond that, he had no idea.

‘Very well,’ Snape said, putting the lid back on the soup bowl. ‘No further attempts at giving the child agency. You will now do exclusively as told. First order of business, have one sip of the compote. Just a single one, mind: I wouldn’t want you deliberating on whether one or two sips is best.’

‘It’s not funny,’ Harry said, even as he took a single sip of the compote. It tasted of strawberry and apple.

‘I never said it was. What’s wrong with your hand?’

Harry froze. ‘Nothing,’ he lied quickly. ‘Why?’

‘You keep scratching at it.’

He hadn’t even realised. The spot where the adder had bit was bright red again, scraped raw with Harry’s fingernails. ‘I think a mosquito bit me,’ he shrugged, avoiding Snape’s eye.

After dinner, they went to the social room to play table tennis. It was unusually crowded: Agata was by the low kiddie table, helping two little boys draw dinosaurs, and their mum sat on the carpet with her legs thrown wide, reading a crime novel and looking exhausted. Harry had never played table tennis before Snape had showed him, but his reflexes were good from Quidditch, so he’d picked it up quickly. He still had trouble estimating the power behind his serve though, and the ball flew across the room a few times, landing on the kiddie table or in the flowerpots and once, to the little boys’ delight, pinging off their mother’s head. Harry had thought then that Snape would cut the game short and tell him off, but he only asked Agata how to say sorry in Polish.

He didn’t appear at all suspicious of Harry, and Agata was acting perfectly normal, and it did seem like Harry was going to get away with it. He even felt at ease enough to play he was kidnapped again when Snape went to the bathroom, and this time he pretended that there was no hope at all of his friends or Dumbledore finding him, and that he was destitute: he would never be able to go back home or see his friends, he would be forced to slave his life away under Snape’s watchful eye and subsist entirely on sauerkraut and compote, until finally Snape died of old age and Harry was too broken and traumatised to ever rejoin society.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ Snape asked him when he got back. Harry couldn’t very well tell him he’d been pretending Snape had kidnapped him and it had been deeply tragic, so he shrugged and served quickly to distract him.

The serve had gone exactly right and the back-and-forth went on for quite a while, and even once Harry finally missed and had to chase after the ball as it rolled on the floor, he felt a swell of victory.

‘That was a new record!’ he shouted at Snape.

Snape didn’t comment on how loud Harry had been, but he winced slightly, which pierced and deflated Harry’s joyous swell. He resisted the impulse to ask him if he was angry, because he knew Snape hated when he did that. Instead, he served with a little too much force, and the ball pinged off the wall above Snape’s head and followed a graceful arch to the other wall, where it struck against the little calendar affixed with tape, which then slid down and fell straight into the fish tank.

Water splashed onto the carpet. The fish scattered in all directions. The little boys hooted.

‘Heavens, Potter, have some finesse! It’s a tiny ball filled with air, not a Bludger!’

‘Sorry,’ Harry told his shoes. Everyone was staring at him.

Snape was already on his way to the fish tank, apologising to Agata as he went. Harry hurried to retrieve the ball, but when he brought it back to the table, Snape shot him a dark look and said,

‘I think you’re wrought enough destruction for one night,’ which wasn’t fair at all, because Harry had already guessed they wouldn’t be playing anymore and was just returning the ball to its rightful place. It was hardly his fault, either, that the calendar was stuck onto the wall with some cheap tape rather than mounted on a nail or something like that.

But these thoughts evaporated from his mind when Snape carelessly hitched up his sleeves to reach into the tank for the calendar. Harry could not have planned it better: for a single moment, before Snape realised and pulled his hands back out to wrench the sleeve back to his wrist, Harry saw very clearly that same tattoo, with the skull and the serpent and the bad feeling.

Wanting to act as if he hadn’t noticed, he looked over to the kiddie table, pretending to be mighty interested in the crayon dinosaurs. As he did, he saw that Agata’s eyes were trained on Snape’s arms.

Perhaps sensing Harry’s gaze, she looked over to him.

She had seen it, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They've had enough rest I think, time for drama!  
> Thank you to all those reading. If you celebrate Christmas, I hope you find a way to make it lovely despite the, uh, ongoing state of global emergency and all. And if you wanted to add to my gift pile, please do leave a comment - though Dumbledore might disagree, I think they're nicer than socks.  
> See you Saturday :)


	14. Thirteen: Zakopane (IV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _  
> He’d been having an entirely pleasant night snug full of sleep, until just before dawn he was woken up by the certainty that the boy was dead.  
>  ___

**Thirteen: Zakopane (IV)**

As he walked down the stairs, the screech of the wood under his feet drilled into Severus’s skull.

He’d been having an entirely pleasant night snug full of sleep, until just before dawn he was woken up by the certainty that the boy was dead.

In the dream, Albus told him he should have known never to trust Severus with a life. ‘You always kill them eventually, dear Severus,’ he’d said, shaking his head in utter dejection, before telling him he had called the Ministry and that the Aurors were on their way to fetch him. Betrayed and enraged, Severus then killed him too, not with a hex, but with his own hands.

He woke bathed in sweat, tiptoed across the room, and when he heard the whistle of the boy’s breath, he sagged onto the floor, knees gone liquid with relief.

Four people, he had killed. First, his father, when he’d left him alone and uncared for after mother’s death until he’d drunk himself into nonexistence. Second, a muggle whose name he’d never learnt, stinking of piss and terror; he had repulsed Severus entirely in that moment and he could think of nothing but that repulsion and Lucius’s promise to tell the Dark Lord what he’d done, nothing but the thrill of knowing he would be able to tell the story at Lamotte’s next dinner party. He’d never gone to the party in the end: he’d fallen ill the day after, and for days felt too weak to get out of bed.

Lily and James Potter, third and fourth. Albus had once told him that he felt it a shame, that Lily should have died before Severus could tell her what had happened with the Prophecy and all that followed; perhaps then, at her voiced understanding and forgiveness, he would accept too that he bore only as much responsibility as any of them in their varied and unintended failures. Severus hadn’t answered him, but in his mind, he’d laughed: Dumbledore did not know her after all, if he thought for a moment that she would have forgiven Severus for hurting, intentionally or not, someone she loved.

He couldn’t sleep again after that and rose in the morning in a poor mood. Potter seemed to sense this and kept to himself, limiting communication to short statements of compliance, which served only to heighten Severus’s frustration. He’d sent him to the garden, with a warning not to go anywhere else or return until lunch, voiced in a way that rendered futile Potter’s infernal question. Yes, Severus was angry. It wasn’t entirely clear to him what it was he was angry about, but he knew he was _it._

He examined now the various doors downstairs, trying to remember which one he’d seen the landlady emerge from last afternoon. They needed to get a move on, his anger dictated. They’d wasted enough time already on his uselessness.

Still unsure if he had the right one, he knocked. No answer came, but the lock clicked free of the frame, and he eased the door open with only a gentle push. Inside, the curtains were pulled, and only a ribbon of sunlight just made out the corners of the room. He had thought this her office, but saw now it was also a bedroom, with a narrow bed pushed to the wall and an old sink stained yellow with hard water.

He had meant to ask her to find out the times of trains to Warsaw within the next few days; snooping hadn’t been on the agenda. Yet there’d been something enthrallingly other about her ever since he’d first stepped into the house: he’d thought it her English, at first, spoken confidently if jerkily at a place and age incongruous with the skill; he’d thought then her eyes were oddly blue, or her manner culturally foreign to him, or her physical strength uncanny for a woman her age. He still did not know, and he found himself unable to help the curiosity.

He looked at the books on her shelf, at the cosmetics in the cabinet over the sink. A half-knit jumper lay abandoned on the simple wooden chair by the window. The air smelled of grey soap and dog food.

The desk was in a state, overcrowded with trinkets and notebooks and loose change. A heavy oil lamp stood at the corner, used perhaps during the power cuts she’d told him happened often during the summer storm season. And, tucked beneath that, was a copy of a newspaper that Severus recognized at once.

_Harry Potter: The Boy Who Lived to Be Dark Lord?_ shouted the front page. There were quotes from Lucius and from Potter’s primary school teacher—how on Earth did they manage to dig _that_ up? The Prophet was dated to a week ago: would they have heard about Berlin by then? And what was this insane theory—

Perplexed and fevered, Severus realised entirely too late that he was no longer alone.

‘My sister was murdered by one of you, you know,’ Agata said lightly from behind him. ‘She was going to come back from England, she didn’t want anything with the war. But she died. The body was so horrible, they didn’t let me see it.’

Severus dropped the paper. He was reaching for his wand.

Then, something fell on him.

It wasn’t so much that the weight on top of him was invisible: it was entirely intangible, a concept rather than a physical thing, a force without mass. Gravity itself pulled at his every bone, compelling him to the ground, and above, the weight of the atmosphere crushed against his lungs. He found himself prostrate on the floor, breath wheezing in and out through tightened airways; he was drowning on nothing, the pressure in his ears deafening, the press on his eyes smelling of blood.

Agata’s hands were clamped onto his shoulders. Hunched above him, she looked mad yet entirely focused, the distortions of her face making him suspect that she, too, felt some of the force he’d been pierced with.

‘I don’t know what you’re trying to do with Harry Potter,’ she said, her voice barely audible to Severus through the ringing ache in his ears. His tongue was made of lead and each and every one of his teeth hurt. ‘Are you trying to make him into your new Dark Lord? I was thinking that. But I’m not so sure I care. You all deserve to die; I’m not wasting time wondering what’s in your head.’

Her mouth twitched, her fingers tightened. When her eyes met his, he felt a breeze of wind, carrying with it the scent of conifers and fresh mud.

Severus’s body _screamed._ He was going to break in half, he thought. His spine was going to snap under the pressure, and every bone in his body was eventually going to shatter into dozens of fragments, driven with momentum through his liver and kidneys and lungs.

Then, he heard a distant door opening, and following that, the awful screech of the stairs as someone rushed up them.

He had no way of knowing if it was the boy, but took a moment now to pray that he’d listened for once and stayed in the garden. Severus didn’t think Potter was Agata’s next intended target, but for as little as he was a magical theorist, he knew unstable magic when it was slowly crushing him into dust: the floor was shaking with it already, and should Agata lose concentration for even a flicker, she might well bring down the house.

An exclamation of pain in his jaw: one of his teeth must have cracked. He fought to keep himself from swallowing the shattered fragments, and they stuck wetly to his tongue. He didn’t even have the power in him to wrench his mouth open and scream.

The footsteps screeched on their way back down. _Please go,_ Severus thought fervently. _Whoever you are, please go._

The sound grew fainter. The throb in Severus’s ears increased.

And then, the push on his body shimmered and snapped as Agata rocked forward, thrown out of balance when Potter jumped on her back.

His fingers jammed into her eyes, feet pushed just above her hips for purchase, he was a blur of desperate energy. Severus tried to call out to him, order him to run, but the wild magic Agata had harnessed was pulling at the lead rope, and the pressure now crested and fell in rhythm with his breath, letting his lungs expand a fraction and then punching the air out of him—

In his left arm, a bone snapped. The weight let up long enough for Severus to scream.

And then, swelling and bulging, it shifted off Severus’s chest. As if fingers pried one-by-one from a tight hold, the magic gradually released feeling back into his body—and with every full breath and every twitch of muscle, something else in the room took on the weight for him: the floor cracked by his left ear, the window shattered and the desk sank to the ground, bringing with it the deafening clutter of bent and deformed objects. The tap in the sink was wrenched free of the wall, spraying water. The mountain breeze was back, blowing papers and notebooks into whirls; the forest scent cloyed in his throat, so thick Severus was sure that he could eat a bowl of sauerkraut now and still taste only pine.

Among this all stood Potter, eyes wild and cheeks red. Before him, Agata had been brought to her knees, struggling against the indeterminate shadow of horrific weight.

Severus clambered to his feet, trembling violently. His eyes met Potter’s. He saw in them only mountains and the summer sky.

Then, Agata breathed and lunged forward, gripping the boy, the floor fracturing beneath her every step, the scales in the tug of war tipped again in her favour as Potter sank—

Without thinking, Severus grabbed the oil lamp and broke it on Agata’s skull.

She fell on top of Potter, blood mixing with intercranial fluid. The metal at the bottom of the lamp had bent into the curved shape of a human head.

One-handed, Severus rolled the body off the boy and pulled him up to sit, his brain a static of shock and pain. Potter’s lip quivered and his breaths were coming in all wrong, but he seemed uninjured besides, which helped clear up a tiny section of Severus’s mind, enough to operate.

‘Are you hurt?’ he asked to make sure, and when the boy shook his head, he rose quickly and rushed to the desk, where from among the mess, he rescued the Daily Prophet issue, and the notebook he’d seen Agata use to keep track of her houseguests.

‘I’m s-sorry, I didn’t think about—the lamp, I should have used that instead of magic, but—are they going to find us now?’

‘No,’ Severus said, sounding more confident than he felt. ‘That was some of the wildest natural magic I’ve ever seen, they should never be able to trace it. But someone will find the body eventually and then we’ll have the muggle authorities to contend with. Go upstairs, pack your clothes, meet me by the front door in five minutes. Do you understand?’

‘Is—is she dead?’

‘Yes,’ Severus said; if she wasn’t yet, she certainly would be in a few minutes’ time. ‘Her control was tentative at best, she was going to kill not only myself, but you as well. _Go_.’

The kitchen was deserted when he came in, the help gone out on their midday break. Severus smelled eggs and last night’s dinner. He snagged a glass bottle of cloudy apple juice and a few of those blueberry buns Potter preferred, then wrapped a piece of chequered cloth into a makeshift sling, spit his tooth into the rubbish bin, and went to meet the boy by the door.

‘What’s wrong with your arm?’

‘It’s broken,’ Severus said. He wasn’t yet in very much pain, the adrenaline thrumming hot in his veins, but he could tell already that he would be soon. ‘Have you got everything? Let’s go.’

They walked to the train station in silence, white-faced and shaking. The next train to Warsaw departed at one-fifteen and it was barely eleven. Eyes followed them wherever they went: they were strange for their foreignness, for their lack of luggage and their sallow faces.

Potter had cranial fluid stuck to his hair. Severus pulled him into the men’s room, tangy-smelling, away from curious looks.

The boy was quiet and pliable when Severus pried the crust out of his hair, and did not complain even when he pulled on a strand with enough force to yank his entire body off-axis. He would have questions, and soon, and Severus did not want to answer a single one.

Five people, Severus had killed.

Another Potter had saved his life in turn. How on Earth had he done it? How could he wield such unique magic with such utter ease?

‘I wasn’t coming back inside,’ the boy said apropos of nothing. ‘I just forgot my jumper and it was getting kind of chilly.’

Severus swallowed. He looked above Potter’s head to meet his own eye in the mirror. ‘If you hadn’t come in, I would likely be dead.’

Potter wrapped his arms around his own chest, wrinkling the fabric of the jumper. ‘Why was she trying to kill you?’

‘I—’ It felt as if someone else was speaking through him: Severus watched helplessly as the truth uncurled from his own tongue. ‘Death Eaters murdered her sister and she wanted revenge. I used to be a Death Eater.’

‘Oh,’ Potter said, entirely unconvincing. ‘Uh—really?’

Severus closed his eyes briefly. ‘Who told you? Dumbledore?’

‘No! No, I figured it out, kind of—because when I was playing you’d kidnapped me, I—that doesn’t matter. But you’re not really a Death Eater, right? You have the tattoo and all, but you’re only pretending?’ he broke, suddenly uncertain. ‘Right?’

He could lie, he thought. ‘I am pretending now,’ he said. ‘But for some time, I was truly loyal to the Dark Lord. I changed sides shortly after you were born.’

The boy tightened his arms around his chest, like he was trying to squeeze all feeling out through his own ears. ‘So, you used to work for him for real? You used to want me dead, too?’

‘I never wanted you dead,’ Severus said, because it was true.

They sat on the wooden bench in front of the station for two hours, eating blueberry buns and sharing the bottle of apple juice. The boy nearly spilled it twice, his hands shook so badly. Severus felt as though he should say something else, or try to comfort the child somehow, but each aborted attempt made him realise more that he had no idea how to do such a thing, and that his arm hurt, and that he’d just killed for the fifth time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the lovely comments on the last few chapters! I'm still a little busy with Christmas at the moment, so I haven't had the time to reply to them all, but will get round to it soon ;)
> 
> We've spent entirely too long in Zakopane by now, and we'll be getting on the train again on Wednesday. Until then, thank you for reading!


	15. Fourteen: Zakopane to Warsaw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _  
> The old man sat across from Harry got off at the next station. Snape woke up briefly, blinked blearily, then dozed off again. Harry waited a few minutes for his breaths to properly lengthen, then shook off the large coat and went through the pockets until he’d found the Daily Prophet Snape had yelled at him about.  
>  ___

**Fourteen: Zakopane to Warsaw**

Storm clouds were gathering above them. Sometimes, the train would go through long stretches of clear skies, and Harry would have to blink hard and fast to rid his vision of overexposed dots. But inevitably, they would go right into rain again, rivulets of it thrown back and forth on the windowpane, trembling with the motion of the train.

Harry was wrapped up in his wool jumper, and covered with Snape’s coat, and he was cold anyway. It was, he thought, the kind of cold you couldn’t shield yourself against.

They’d been travelling for hours and the day had darkened into evening. Snape had been highly irritable throughout, telling Harry off constantly for putting his feet up on the seats and then for _not_ putting his feet up on the seats, for following him everywhere and for fidgeting and leaving crumbs from the blueberry bun on the floor and for asking if he could read the Daily Prophet. It had been a relief when he’d finally dozed off: he couldn’t talk when he was asleep and he couldn’t walk around, which helped Harry keep track of him. The last time he’d let Snape out of sight, he’d nearly died. Harry was not going to have that happen again, even if that meant annoying Snape by sneaking out of the compartment to wait for him by the toilet.

He’d expected to feel all around worse about what had happened to Agata. He’d felt worse about Quirrell. But all he could think was that it took a terribly hateful person to try and kill someone just because of a tattoo on their arm, without ever knowing the full story or finding out that Snape wasn’t evil anymore—Harry supposed he might understand it better if he had a sister himself. But Voldemort had killed his parents, hadn’t he, and Harry wasn’t about to go around murdering people who _might have_ worked for him in the past.

The thing that he _did_ feel bad about was, in the end, the way Snape tensed even in his sleep when a curve in the tracks jostled his broken arm. And Harry could have stopped him ever being in danger at all, if only he’d been less selfish about staying in Zakopane, and told the truth when he’d realised Agata could do magic.

He had hoped before that Snape wouldn’t find out about it, but only because he hadn’t wanted to leave. The idea that he might find out _now_ made Harry positively sick, the consequences of such a thing vaguely defined yet horrendous all the same. He might as well be dead if Snape ever found out. The world might as well end.

The secret of it pressed heavy and molten on Harry’s tongue.

The old man sat across from Harry got off at the next station. Snape woke up briefly, blinked blearily, then dozed off again. Harry waited a few minutes for his breaths to properly lengthen, then shook off the large coat and went through the pockets until he’d found the Daily Prophet Snape had yelled at him about.

_Harry Potter: The Boy Who Lived to Be Dark Lord?_

_The trial for custody over Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived, is set to begin Monday, and still the underage wizard remains elusive. With the wizarding society frantic over the fate of a boy gifted with unique and unstudied powers, Hogwarts Headmaster and Potter’s current legal guardian, Albus Dumbledore, might well be hiding the full story from the public._

_We have approached Dumbledore for a comment on Potter’s mad tale of You-Know-Who’s possession of ex-Hogwarts Professor Quirinus Quirrell. ‘I trust Harry’s every word, but for the purposes of the trial, this context is unnecessary,’ Dumbledore says. ‘Even if one were to distrust Harry’s account that he has faced [You-Know-Who] yet again, they must nevertheless trust that the boy’s magical reaction to the threat of a much older and more experienced wizard was entirely understandable, if unusual.’ Dumbledore has been criticised for his attempts at writing the battier parts of Potter’s story out of the narrative, but what if his refusal to engage has deeper, darker roots?_

_The Prophet has managed to gain special access to a source from Potter’s early childhood. Ms Bethany Green (37), schoolteacher at Potter’s muggle primary, reminisces: ‘He was always an odd, troubled child. He zoned out during most lessons and struggled a lot—there’s been some unpleasantness, I remember, with him playing strange pranks, climbing the roof, dangerous things like that. And he was always scruffy and skinny, not dirty, exactly, but there was something unhygienic about him—difficult to put your finger on, really. There must have been trouble at home, and I remember there were some attempts made (…) to interfere, you know, to get someone to visit or—but he wasn’t battered or bruised, either, and somehow, it never went anywhere. (…) Oh, yes, I am convinced he was abused.’_

_Green’s account hardly resembles the idyllic childhood of safe anonymity we have imagined for the Boy Who Lived, but it certainly makes it easier to understand how such a child might be driven to kill. And an abuse survivor so easily capable of defeating wizards twice his size is certainly one to watch out for._

_‘Did he make up that mad tale about You-Know-Who to drive suspicion away from himself? Perhaps so,’ says Lucius Malfoy, Ministry official and head of the Malfoy family, who will be testifying on Monday. ‘Could he have truly seen him? No one knows what happened the night of You-Know-Who’s demise or what impact that had on the child, magical or otherwise. I struggle to believe a Hogwarts teacher, respected by staff and students alike, could have spent the year walking around, merrily possessed by You-Know-Who… But a magically traumatised boy would have been an easy target.’_

_Mr Malfoy refused to speculate further. But the Prophet will not be cowered: possession would explain Potter’s supernatural abilities, the queerness perceived by his schoolteachers, and perhaps even the inability of his muggle relatives to properly care for him. ‘They may have intuited something was off about him,’ says Gilderoy Lockhart, Daily Prophet’s Dark Arts correspondent. ‘I myself have seen many a time that muggles can sense with their hearts what they can’t hope to see or understand as a wizard might, especially if what they are sensing poses a threat to them.’_

_As Mr Malfoy says, we are unable to do more at this juncture than speculate. But even if Harry Potter has not in fact been possessed by You-Know-Who, an abused boy who struggles to connect with peers and wizarding society, makes up tales and wields a power none of us can understand, may be well on his way to becoming the next Dark Lord without the extra help._

_Read the Prophet’s exclusive on Potter’s custody trial on Monday._

Harry’s grip on the edge of the page tightened. A bit came off, torn and crinkled.

He didn’t know what to do. Was it possible that he _was_ possessed by Voldemort? It would explain why he could do all the freaky magic he’d done recently, and how he’d managed to kill Quirrell, and what if that was why the Dursleys—

No. He had seen Voldemort’s face on the back of Quirrell’s head. He knew what had happened. And Voldemort had been weak when he possessed Quirrell, he’d needed the unicorn blood to make it even that long; there weren’t very many unicorns running around Surrey.

But if you weren’t Harry, if you hadn’t seen what he had, then the theory made a whole lot of sense, didn’t it? What if Hermione read it in the paper and believed it? What if Ron’s parents saw it and told him he couldn’t be friends with Harry anymore? And what if Snape—Snape had read it already, and he’d _seen_ Harry use that same wild mountain magic Agata had done. What if Snape believed Harry was possessed, too—or, maybe worse than that, what if he thought Harry was dangerous all on his own, since he’d seen him do wild magic and he’d said that it was harder for people who didn’t have nice parents to grow up good, _and_ he knew about what Aunt Petunia used to do—

One hand still clutching the newspaper, Harry felt around the coat pockets again, until he sensed that warm tingle on his skin that told him his wand was near.

He pulled it out, breathless and guilty, and then pushed it quickly under the hem of his trousers. It dug into his stomach and hipbone some, but it was held secure by the belt and hidden under his shirt.

‘ _What_ are you doing?’

Harry froze.

‘Let me answer that for you,’ Snape said, sounding plenty menacing even though his voice was laced groggy with sleep. ‘You are reading. While that is an activity I would usually recommend you do more of, not less, you are reading something which I am fairly certain you are not supposed to read.’

He stared at the paper in his hands, the relief dwindling with Snape’s every word.

‘What are you reading, Potter?’

‘The paper,’ Harry said under his breath.

‘I can’t hear you.’

Red-faced and shaking, Harry lifted his eyes. ‘The paper, _sir._ ’

‘The paper. I believe we had a conversation a little over an hour ago about this very paper, didn’t we? And are you allowed to read this particular paper, Potter?’

‘No,’ Harry mumbled. ‘But I should be.’

‘You _should_ be?’ Snape’s tone turned dangerous. Harry scooted back in his seat.

‘They’re writing about me,’ he said, trying to sound brave. ‘You can’t tell me I’m not allowed to read it when they’re writing about me.’

‘Oh, but I just have,’ Snape leaned across the aisle between the seats and plucked the paper out of Harry’s hand. ‘There are two extremes of journalistic approach, Mr Potter: complete investigative honesty and utter sensationalism. Whoever wrote this piece—a Miss Skeeter, apparently—subscribes to the second school. When there is an article published about you that I believe holds any substance, I will happily allow you to read it.’

But it did hold substance, Harry thought. It had it right that the Dursleys hated Harry, and about the time he got on the roof of his school by accident, and that he’d been odd and—and _unhygienic—_ and who knew that better than Snape?

‘Where are you going?’

‘Toilet,’ Harry choked. He didn’t bother to close the compartment door behind him, and raced to the end of the wagon, relieved to see the bathroom was unoccupied.

For a while, he sat on top of the toilet bowl, head hidden in his hands. Hunched over as he was, the stolen wand bit painfully into his lowest rib. What was he doing to do with it anyway? Cast _Lumos_ and get all in Snape’s face in the hopes of blinding him? So far, Harry’s wild magic had only kicked in when someone’s life was in danger, and he found it difficult to believe Snape would try to _kill_ him. But if he changed his mind and decided to give Harry up to the Aurors, they wouldn’t have much trouble searching Harry for the missing wand and taking it from him anyway.

Would they send him to prison? If not, would he be sent back to the Dursleys, or would Dumbledore believe what the article said? Or would he maybe think that Harry was too dangerous to be allowed near muggles? He’d thought once that if he were expelled, he could go live with Hagrid. But now that simply breaking his wand wasn’t enough, they might never allow him anywhere near other Hogwarts students again.

A man knocked on the door and called out something insistent. Harry rubbed at his face, then got out, keeping his eyes low on the ground. A small queue had formed, well into the corridor, and they were all giving Harry looks that varied from annoyed to concerned.

He didn’t stop at their compartment. Instead, he went to the opposite end of the wagon, where he sat down on the floor by the heavy door out. Through the little round window, he saw nothing but the darkness of unlit fields and thick forests. The blurred glints of small towns were so short-lived you could easily miss them if you blinked. The train jostled and shook, and he banged his teeth against his curled-up knees a few times, but it was better out here than back in with Snape. Even if Harry kind of wished he had his coat at least, to cover himself against the chill creeping in through the door.

Some time later, Snape came to find him. For a while, he stood looming over Harry in silence, expectant perhaps that Harry might look up to meet his eye, or at least get to his feet. It would have been the polite thing to do. But Harry felt so tired.

‘Get up,’ Snape said finally. ‘Come, you’ll sit back in the compartment.’

When Snape took him by the shoulder and pulled, Harry made his body heavy and loose.

‘What, you’re a cat now?’ Snape asked drily. ‘I can’t lift you with one functioning arm, Potter.’

Harry didn’t have the strength for that much fighting. Pliable, he followed Snape into the compartment, where he allowed himself to be arranged on the seat and covered with Snape’s coat until it was tucked in tight around him. After that, Snape stepped out onto the corridor again and closed the door behind him. A claw tightened around Harry’s heart when he realised Snape might not want to be near him anymore. Was he afraid of Harry? Or repulsed by him?

For the rest of the journey, Snape stood just outside the door, looking through the window into the dark nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this one's a bit of a downer. That seems a poor way to end the year, so there's an extra chapter today to make up for it - make sure to check it out!


	16. Fifteen: Warsaw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _  
> He ordered them both a toasted open-faced sandwich that looked like it would feed an army. He got himself a vodka shot to go with it, because that was the extent of his knowledge about this part of the world, and also because he absolutely needed a drink. He got the boy the Coca Cola, because that seemed like something the sugar-obsessed creature might enjoy, and also because he felt guilty.  
>  ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the second chapter today, make sure you've not missed the previous one!

**Fifteen: Warsaw**

At Warsaw Central Station, Severus’s first order of business was finding out the time for the next bus toward Tallinn.

Severus’s second order of business was locating the nearest pharmacy and swallowing back as much Ibuprofen as reason allowed, and then one or two more.

He had grown spoiled on potions and Pomfrey’s fussing. He was nursing one broken arm and one missing tooth, and he could not remember ever feeling so miserable. Even counting in the near-death experience, the burning memory of a life freshly taken, and the superpowered turmoil of trauma that was the juvenile fugitive walking a step behind him—surely Severus had had it worse?

By third order of business, they went back into the main hall of the station, rode up the darkened elevator and joined the sleepy queue for the shabbier-looking of the two restaurants. A backlit Coca Cola advert promised a garden of delights. Pigeons cooed at each other, peaceful in the face of the constant scatter of fresh crumbs. The menu was stained with grease and marked with handwritten updates that Severus couldn’t decipher.

He ordered them both a toasted open-faced sandwich that looked like it would feed an army. He got himself a vodka shot to go with it, because that was the extent of his knowledge about this part of the world, and also because he absolutely needed a drink. He got the boy the Coca Cola, because that seemed like something the sugar-obsessed creature might enjoy, and also because he felt guilty.

After a few bites of the sandwich, which proved just as filling but altogether more pleasing than he’d expected, and once the vodka and the Ibuprofen had decided to work in tandem, Severus felt better prepared to deal with the rest of the night.

‘I should hope you’re aware that you have _not_ been possessed by the Dark Lord,’ he said to the boy.

Potter gave a half-nod, half-shrug.

‘There may be some morons among _The Daily Prophet_ readers who will believe such a tale, but the Wizengamot is largely composed of reasonably rational individuals. They are the jury who will hear the case for your custody, and I assure you they will not be distracted by this sensationalist blabber.’

Severus wasn’t _entirely_ confident this was an accurate assessment, but the vodka had made him optimistic.

‘So, uhm,’ Potter said with a full mouth. A mushroom came out through the gap between his teeth and flapped onto the table. This time, he swallowed before continuing, ‘Uh, Professor Dumbledore will be there at the trial, right? Saying that he should be my guardian, kind of?’

‘Yes. The Ministry would wish to take that guardianship away from him, which means they would have the deciding power in where to place you.’

‘So where would I go if they won? Would I—’ his voice dipped into a half-whisper, ‘—would I go to prison?’

Severus snorted. ‘Prison? No, Potter, you will not go to prison. Heavens, you’re eleven years old; where on Earth did you even get that idea?’

‘I’m going to be twelve in three weeks,’ the boy pointed out.

‘Ah, that changes everything. Twelve-year-olds are notoriously the largest percentage population of most any prison.’

Potter was not amused.

‘You would most likely be sent to a foster family,’ Severus explained. ‘But some of the people who have influence over due process have been known in the past to associate with Death Eaters. You might not be entirely safe where they place you, which is why Professor Dumbledore is making sure that you _don’t_ become a ward of the Ministry.’

He wondered if the boy would comment on the fact he hadn’t exactly been _safe_ where Dumbledore had placed him either. It was certainly at the forefront of Severus’s mind these days.

But instead, the boy bit his lip and asked,

‘And what if Dumbledore—I mean, Professor Dumbledore wins? Then we go back to Britain and everything’s back to normal, right? I just go back to the Dursleys like before?’

Severus set down his sandwich.

‘No,’ he bit out. ‘You will not go back to your aunt and uncle. After what you’ve told me, do you genuinely believe that you would be allowed to?’

Potter hesitated, eyes searching Severus’s face as if for a hint as to what the right answer might be. ‘No?’ he tried.

‘Are you asking me or telling me?’

‘But you didn’t—you didn’t even say anything about it.’

He hadn’t. Ideally, he would never have to say anything about it ever again; the less involved he was, the less painful it would be for everyone. ‘That is your private business,’ he told the boy, and it sounded uncomfortable and wrong. ‘But you can be sure I have registered the information and that at my earliest convenience, I will be informing the Headmaster that your relatives are an unfit placement for you so that you may be moved. Is that clear?’

‘Moved where?’

‘That is for the Headmaster to decide.’

Potter considered this. ‘Couldn’t I just live in Hogwarts during the summers?’

‘No. The teachers all leave the castle for the summer holidays and you are entirely too young to be left to your own devices.’

‘I’m not going to _starve_ ,’ Potter scoffed, as if he couldn’t imagine what other concerns Severus might hold about the scenario. ‘I can cook, you know. I could maybe forage in the forest—or, or just on the grounds, and then cook the food in my Potions cauldron or something. And if I got lost or whatever, then the ghosts could help me out.’

‘No, Potter.’

‘I’d do my homework and everything!’

Severus was about to open his mouth to detail to the boy at least a few of the myriad reasons why leaving him at Hogwarts unattended for two months was a ridiculous notion. But then he remembered this wasn’t his battle to wage.

‘Feel free to present your arguments to the Headmaster,’ he told him. ‘I’m sure he’ll be happy to hear your ideas.’

‘I will,’ Potter said, jerking his chin up as if in challenge.

The bus wasn’t until midnight, so they sat on a metal bench in the spacious hall to wait. Three young backpackers argued under the departures board, their voices echoing coldly on the distant walls. Pigeons nipped at Severus’s feet. His head swam with alcohol, Ibuprofen and simple exhaustion, the curves of the world deepened and the colours more meaningful. Potter sat curled into a compact shape, his head half-buried in his jumper. He looked like a tortoise, Severus thought.

He’d supposed him asleep, so startled when the dark head spoke clearly, ‘Do you think I’m evil?’

‘What on Earth are you talking about now?’

‘Because I killed Quirrell,’ the boy whispered into his jumper. ‘And then today when I—’

‘I killed Agata,’ Severus said, for once happy about it: clearly, it would have been worse if the boy had done so before Severus got round to it. ‘Just as you did with Quirrell, I killed her in self-defence. That does not make us—that doesn’t make you evil.’

‘No, but—I mean the magic. I shouldn’t have been able to kill Quirrell at all, but I was because I can use that freaky magic somehow. And it’s the same magic that Agata used to break your arm.’

‘You didn’t use it to break my arm. You used it to save my life. I don’t understand, how is that evil?’

The boy puffed out his breath, frustrated that Severus was missing his point. ‘ _That_ isn’t, but—you don’t think that it’s creepy, that I can just do something like that so easily?’

Severus did indeed find it both creepy and deeply concerning, but he wasn’t about to say so.

‘No,’ he lied. ‘You know, Potter, you’re not the only one capable of killing another person. Even the frailest of old ladies could probably manage to slip someone a sedative and then smother them with their pillow. And if you intend to become a fully qualified wizard, and I certainly hope you do, you will know spells and potions that could easily send your chosen victim into an early grave. As long as you use those powers wisely, I don’t see how that would make you evil. Most people are capable of killing, they only choose not to do it. But sometimes, you have to hurt someone to protect yourself, do you understand?’

‘I guess.’

‘What do you have to do to protect yourself?’

Potter groaned. ‘I _know,_ I’ve heard you.’

‘No. Tell me.’

‘Sometimes you have to hurt someone,’ the boy droned, sending Severus a glare over the collar of the jumper, which now reached somewhere around his nose.

‘If you’re concerned about this affinity for natural magic that you so clearly possess, that is again something you should take up with the Headmaster. He is well-versed in magical theory and should be able to help you achieve more control.’

To be frank, the boy had displayed _plenty_ of control that morning, perhaps more so than Agata herself had. He wasn’t convinced whether he was doing the right thing in downplaying the magnitude of this discovery for Potter. But surely the boy was too young to be told that he needed to get a grip on his completely unique powers because he might eventually have to use them to kill a man no one else could kill?

He needed Albus for this. Albus would frame the discussion in some vaguely poetic terms that spoke to children, and he would tell Severus what could be done with a superpowered boy who was destined to defeat the Dark Lord yet still unable to control his bladder. No more layovers, he decided right then. They were going to Tallinn and getting on the ferry to Helsinki, and then he was bringing Albus to Finland so he could sort through Potter’s million issues. Delaying action was helping no one, least of all the child.

‘Okay,’ Potter shifted. ‘Can—can you ask him? About the magic?’

‘I will let him know he needs to discuss it with you.’

‘Thanks.’

A couple minutes later, Potter shifted again. This time, his head ended up brushing against Severus’s shoulder. He stayed completely still, wondering whether the boy would change position; when he didn’t, Severus didn’t know whether to be relieved or horrified.

A cleaning lady had him lift his legs so she could sweep under the bench, which amused Potter a great deal, though he did his best to hide it. The restaurants upstairs were shutting their doors, and the last travellers who’d sought shelter there made their way down to the main hall. The escalators whistled into motion, then slowed gradually into their low hum.

‘Is it true that you didn’t like my dad?’

A spike of tension travelled up Severus’s spine. The boy’s head got dislodged from where it rested against his shoulder.

‘Who told you that?’

Potter worried his lip between his teeth.

‘ _Potter_.’

‘Professor Dumbledore. But only because I kept badgering him about it, because I wanted to know why you saved me that time on the Quidditch pitch. And he said you didn’t like my dad but he saved your life one time, so you owed him—’

‘That’s utter nonsense,’ Severus spat. ‘I don’t owe him _one thing_.’

‘I’m sorry,’ the boy stuttered quickly.

Severus tightened his hands into fists, held for the count of five, then released. ‘It’s not your fault you were misled, is it?’

‘…no?’

‘Your father and I disliked each other,’ he admitted, taking care to keep at least some of the venom out of his voice. ‘But my saving you had nothing to do with him. I would have attempted the same for any student who was at risk of breaking their neck playing that ridiculous game, and I was doubly vigilant with you, both because it was your first match, and because your mother would have done the same if she’d been there.’

A single mention of Lily was all the distraction he needed. Potter deflated, though his head still did not return to Severus’s shoulder.

‘That must have been awkward, when you were friends with my mum and then she got together with my dad,’ he mused with forced humour. Severus immediately recognized this as the boy’s own attempt at defusing the situation. ‘That’s like if Hermione got together with Malfoy or something. Blergh.’

Severus smiled faintly. ‘Yes. It was rather awkward.’

It had been more than, of course. It had been a horror of jealousy and insecurity and fear, and the mounting frustration as she continued to ignore every argument he thought of.

‘I know what you see,’ she’d told him one time, when they were both worn out from arguing and languid with it. ‘But that’s not what I see. And I think you have a choice, in life: you can look at someone and judge them for who they are at their worst, or who they are at their best.’

‘I think that’s what my mother told herself when she was marrying my father, too.’

He’d known immediately he’d gone too far. Her eyes turned to steel.

‘I think you should take that back,’ she demanded, cheeks blooming in fever red.

He wanted to, but he was too proud and stupid for it. ‘You know what I find curious? Whenever you see me, you go off about how I am with my friends, in this context or that context—how come James Potter gets to be judged for who he is _at his best_ , and I don’t?’

‘Because,’ she said, ‘whoever it is you are at your best with, Severus, it’s not me.’

‘Professor Dumbledore also said that you don’t like me because I look like my dad.’

_Professor Dumbledore needs to talk less_ , Severus thought to himself.

‘I like you fine, Potter,’ he told him brusquely.

Thank Merlin the boy had ridiculously low standards, because that was all it took to bring his head back to Severus’s shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that is the final chapter this year! Thank you to everyone who has read, commented and left kudos on this work these past weeks. I know this year has been tough on many of us, but I hope that like me, you have managed to find pockets of joy in among the chaos. Stay safe over New Year's, do not mix Ibuprofen with vodka, and I'll see you in 2021, which is going to be a _very good year _because I said so.__


	17. Sixteen: Warsaw to Tallinn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _  
> Harry yawned and squirmed, his butt not agreeing with the seat anymore. His legs crawled with ants. They’d only been on the bus for five hours and he’d slept through most of them, yet already he wanted out.  
>  ___

**Sixteen: Warsaw to Tallinn**

The same rocking that had lulled Harry to sleep stirred him awake now, in gentle waves of awareness. The dark had receded to make room for the first flutters of dawn, slipping in through the cracks between the trees outside the window. The digital clockface above the first row of seats read 05:34.

Harry yawned and squirmed, his butt not agreeing with the seat anymore. His legs crawled with ants. They’d only been on the bus for five hours and he’d slept through most of them, yet already he wanted out.

Snape was still asleep, his mouth slightly open. It would feel awfully dry when he woke up, especially with all the painkillers he’d taken, and Harry wondered how that might affect his mood. You would expect that if nearly dying and then killing someone hadn’t tipped him into a full rage, a bit of dry mouth wouldn’t either, but people were weird like that.

Just before six, the bus slowed and then pivoted to a stop by the side of the road. The driver announced something in Polish and everyone at once started to stand and fuss as the engine drew dead. Harry touched Snape’s arm with his finger, which did nothing, so he tried it again a little harder, and Snape jumped, startling them both.

‘Everyone’s getting out,’ Harry said, eyeing him with extra care.

Snape looked distinctly unhappy about it, but he nodded. ‘Yes, well, let’s.’

They followed the trail of passengers out onto the forest floor, wet with dew and morning chill. Snape stayed to show the driver his roadmap of Europe and find out how close to the border they were. He’d told Harry to go ‘use the facilities,’ which was his funny way of saying Harry should make do like the rest of the people and pee in the grass. Which was disgusting. Harry tried to find a bush that would shield him fully from view, but they were sparse so close to the road; in the end, he had to walk a good distance away from the bus until voices faded and the trees grew thick and dark.

When he was sure no one could possibly see him, he peed. Then, he took out his wand. It felt good just to hold it; he hadn’t realised he’d been missing it until now.

His stomach was bruised purple from where the wand had been digging into his belly fat for hours, but he knew he couldn’t possibly hope to keep it hidden from Snape if he only jammed it into a pocket. Last night was a dreamlike blur to Harry and he didn’t think he could trust very much of it, but neither did he want Snape to know he didn’t trust him: it might be another dry mouth situation.

‘ _There_ you are,’ a voice exclaimed behind him. Harry shoved the wand back under the hem of his trousers, heart beating so fast it hurt. ‘What on Earth are you doing?’

It would be embarrassing to say out loud to a teacher that he’d been peeing in the forest, but neither did Harry wish to repeat Snape’s lame joke about _using the facilities_. ‘Uh, what you told me.’

‘And you needed to go to the opposite end of the forest for that?’

Harry didn’t really know what to say.

‘Well?’ Snape insisted. ‘Explain yourself.’

He honestly hadn’t realised he was doing anything wrong, but that was never going to work as an argument, so he tried for an apology. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I swear to—do not wander off again,’ Snape took him by the shoulder and began steering him back in the direction of the road, as if Harry couldn’t find the way himself. ‘Merlin, it is too early for this.’

They did not get back on the bus again. Instead, they covered themselves with the cloak and watched from the bushes as it departed, and then headed for the Lithuanian border on foot, the asphalt growing warmer and more brilliant with each passing minute, until Harry couldn’t look at it anymore because it hurt his eyes.

The border was just a single security booth and some barbed wire. On the opposite side was a lake, barely visible from behind the wall of reed, and then a petrol station on the horizon where their bus had stopped for breakfast.

A woman in a red headscarf sat on a fruit crate by the side of the road, selling fresh berries out of a plastic container. Snape bought them one of the smaller baskets of blueberries, which he gave to Harry to hold. From a distance, they saw the passengers boarding the bus again, and had to run to make it on time, the berries shifting precariously back and forth with Harry’s every leap over a hole in the road. But he only dropped a few.

They ate the berries straight from the basket, powdered with sugar from little packets Snape had taken from their hotel in Amsterdam. ‘That’s stealing,’ Harry pointed out, though didn’t pause in his eating even as the bus jostled him this way and that. Snape didn’t bother denying the accusation, but he didn’t seem particularly repentant about it either. His mouth had dyed purple at the corners, and Harry’s tongue, when he stuck it out to check in the windowpane, was a bold ultramarine.

Once the berries were gone, they drove and drove and nothing much happened. Harry grew bored, but he was good at boredom. Snape read through the rest of the Daily Prophet, which Harry tried very hard not to look at, then folded it and stilled, first blinking rapidly and finally closing his eyes fully, a moue of discomfort on his lips.

‘They have these pills at petrol stations sometimes,’ Harry told him. ‘Or if they have ginger ale, that works for motion sickness, too.’

Snape looked at him like he wanted to say something, but then shook that off. He’d been looking at Harry more altogether, today.

‘I think the pills are ginger, too,’ he added, feeling awkward. ‘Ginger just works for motion sickness for some reason.’

‘It does,’ Snape agreed. ‘What does it work for more generally?’

‘Uh, I don’t know—feeling bad?’

Snape looked to the ceiling. ‘Tell me, are you ever actually awake in my classroom, or have you mastered the ability to sleep with your eyes open? We have used ginger in _several_ potions this year, and I have explained every time—’

‘We have?’

Snape stared at him like he couldn’t decide whether to yell or laugh. ‘Do you know what ginger looks like, Potter?’

‘Uh—’ Harry remembered ginger ale. ‘It’s kind of yellow?’

‘Merlin, and I didn’t fail you? Ginger works against nausea. It is added to many potions, especially in healing, to make the combination of potent ingredients easier on the digestive system.’

Harry thought that _feeling bad_ and _nausea_ were basically the same thing, so he didn’t really understand Snape’s outrage, nor did he appreciate being told he was so stupid he should have failed a class. He was reminded suddenly of all the more mundane reasons why he hated Snape. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared past him at the window, to keep the anger inside.

‘I’m putting you in first row next year,’ Snape vowed, apparently unaware that Harry was done with the conversation. ‘That way, at least I can spot the moment your eyes glaze over.’

‘I’m not sitting in first row,’ Harry huffed.

‘Yes, you are.’

‘I am _not,_ ’ he straightened, now worried that Snape was genuinely considering this mad plan. ‘Only people who just care about school and have no friends sit in first row. I can’t sit there.’

‘Your Miss Granger sat in first row throughout autumn term,’ Snape stated calmly.

‘Yeah, back when she had no friends, and then we _rescued her_ —don’t you know anything?’

He’d gone a step too far. Snape’s face changed. ‘I know you’re not allowed to take that tone with me,’ he said sharply.

Harry slumped back on his seat, face burning with embarrassment. He hadn’t meant to say it, and felt bad now for another reason, too: if Snape grew up to be a teacher, it was entirely possible he’d sat in first row when he was at school, and Harry had been very harsh in his judgment.

‘You know a lot of things,’ he told him stupidly, cringing at it but wanting to make Snape feel better _somehow._ ‘Like, about Potions. And other things. You’re really smart, smarter than Hermione, even.’

Snape looked him in the eye again. Harry quickly stared down into his lap.

‘Smarter than a twelve-year-old? Why, thank you, Potter, that is all I have ever wanted to hear.’

After that, Snape abandoned his newspaper and fixed his eyes on the road ahead to ease the motion sickness, and they played twenty questions until they got to Vilnius. It wasn’t the best game of twenty questions Harry had played, since Snape insisted on setting him potions ingredients to guess, but it was more interesting than staring outside the window for hours on end, so he glowered a little but didn’t argue.

The driver changed then, and this new one played the radio at full volume constantly, which made afternoon napping entirely impossible. The same six songs came on looped, and the signal would cut off when they crossed swathes of forest, only to return with hissing and humming and the guitar riff that Harry could now hear even during the ad breaks. _Life is a highway_ , the singer repeated over and over again. It definitely seemed like it was, Harry thought, the longer they stayed on this stupid coach. _If you’re going my way, I want to ride it all night long._

Here, Harry and the singer were in disagreement.

They got off again at the Latvian border and found a roadside restaurant where they waited for the next bus. The tables were cut out of massive slabs of dark wood, and the flickering lamps bathed everything in a shimmering glow that made Harry sleepy. Cats ambled under their feet, curious or maybe hoping for scraps. A fat tabby took a particular liking to Harry and clambered onto the bench to sniff at his hands and get her ears petted.

‘Can you turn into a cat?’ Harry asked Snape.

Snape was busy perusing the menu, which seemed pointless to Harry since it was all in Latvian. ‘Professor McGonagall is an Animagus, I am not.’

‘Is that when you can change into a cat?’

‘Every Animagus has their own unique animal form, not necessarily a cat. But it takes significant time and dedication to become one, and few wizards attempt it.’

Harry thought if Snape were an Animagus, he would probably be a bat. That was a good animal to be, he supposed, because you were able to fly; but bats slept in dark, dank caves, which didn’t sound appealing to Harry. He wouldn’t want to be a house cat like McGonagall, either, that was hopelessly boring. He could be a lion, perhaps, or a jaguar; or maybe a bird of prey, so that he could fly, too.

The waitress got annoyed with them soon enough, and when all attempts at communication failed, she brought them two plates of food they hadn’t ordered, with a glare that made it clear she would not hear arguments. Snape got some deep dish with mushrooms and meat, and Harry a pork schnitzel and boiled potatoes swaddled in dill, so he ended up the clear winner. His tabby friend was largely uninterested in the main dish, but she liked the herb butter that came with their basket of rye bread, so Harry put little licks of it on his finger and passed it to her under the table when Snape didn’t look, trying not to squirm as she tickled him with her sharp tongue.

‘Do you realise the amount of disease stray cats carry?’

Harry jerked his hand back into his lap. His elbow knocked into the edge of the table, sending a pierce of pain all the way up to his neck. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered, although he wasn’t really. He also thought the tabby cat was too fat for a stray.

‘Don’t apologise to me, go and wash your hands before you touch your own food.’

Harry did go. He looked strange in the bathroom mirror. More tan than he got usually. His cheeks had more colour to them and his mouth lay different against his chin. Maybe he looked older? Taller? He couldn’t tell.

He looked at his hands as he dried them on the little pink towel. They seemed very small to him somehow. Had they always been that small?

Breath knotted in his chest. He hitched his shirt up to look at the wand and the bruise. Snape had some bruise-healing potion in his coat—he’d seen him rub it into his broken arm. But Harry couldn’t steal another thing from him, and even if he could hide the wand and invent an excuse, he couldn’t show Snape his bare stomach: the thought alone made him heat up with embarrassment.

Sometimes when he became embarrassed, even about something that hadn’t happened yet, it pulled on a thread in him until he was reliving another embarrassment and another, the associations coming in fast and loose. The bruise made him remember the way he’d spoken to Snape earlier on the bus, and then that made him think of how a teacher in his primary school once told him off in front of everyone for not knowing what an adverb was. And that, for some reason, made him think of Snape promising to tell Dumbledore about the Dursleys.

He couldn’t decide which would be more horrible: if Snape actually told him, because then Dumbledore would _know_ ; or if he never did, because then Harry would have been lied to and fallen for it. Fallen for it a little. He wasn’t committed to believing or disbelieving, actually. None of it felt real at all, like maybe it was happening to someone else. He had imagined sometimes that someone might try to take him away, and in his fantasies, he was alight with hope and joy and terror and a thousand different emotions. In reality, he felt nothing at all.

When he got back to the table, the tabby cat was sprawled on the bench next to Snape and he was petting her tummy, which felt pretty risky to Harry for reasons less to do with disease and more to do with tiny claws.

‘Yes, I will go and wash my hands, too,’ Snape said when he saw him watching.

When Harry didn’t sit down immediately, his eyebrows knitted, and the hand on the cat’s tummy stilled. ‘Are you alright?’

Harry didn’t know. He felt oddly nervous, and so shy he couldn’t bear to move, let alone answer.

Snape reached out with his good arm and tugged on Harry’s wrist, so he could lower his voice when he asked, ‘What’s wrong?’

Nothing, Harry thought. He couldn’t think of anything that might be wrong except that his hands had looked too small in the bathroom, and yet he felt like something truly horrible was about to befall him, right here in the middle of this tiny roadside restaurant.

When he opened his mouth to tell Snape so, no sound came out. He tried again, and once more, and gripped his throat and then his chest, unsure where the voice had got stuck exactly but desperate to fish it out. That song from the bus kept playing in his head, the middle verse of the chorus disjointed from the rest, _I want to drive it all night long—all night long—I want to drive it all night long—_

‘Sit down,’ Snape was telling him. Harry started to move. ‘No, sit down here. Did anything happen while you were in the bathroom?’

Harry shook his head as he sank obediently to the bench by Snape’s side. He felt like he was never going to be able to speak again, and it scared him so much he wanted to die. He was sure that the water Snape had given him would get stuck in his throat, too, and spill back out through clenched lips; but nothing like that happened, which was somehow even scarier _._

He saw his hand move, though he didn’t feel it, as if it weren’t his own, or like it had been cut off from his body without him noticing. The image of a bloody stump flashed through his mind just as the guitar riff came back.

Snape was moving the hand, he realised, until it was flat against the cat’s warm fur. It took terrible effort to jerk his fingers awake, and he had to focus his entire being on consciously edging them back and forth in an uncoordinated imitation of scratching. Snape’s hand was right next to his, the motion of his fingers smooth and steady. Harry tried to copy it best he could but failed to stop the minute tremble of his whole arm.

‘I think cats are my favourite animal,’ Snape told him. ‘It used to be very common for Potions Masters to have cats, you know. They caught the rats and mice that ran aplenty in townhouses, and those could then be used for many brews. Today, most people buy them straight from the Apothecary, but I wonder sometimes whether it might be more cost-efficient to get myself a cat for the Hogwarts laboratory. The dungeons are full of rodents, not to mention the grounds—but I’m not sure how you’re meant to train a cat to bring you their prey instead of eating it.’

Harry’s fingers were hurting. He only now realised it was because he’d been holding them so tight. When he loosened them, the scratching became much easier, and soon, he felt the vibrations of the cat’s purring under his palm.

‘You have to give them treats in exchange,’ he said. He sounded like a stranger to his own ears. ‘I’ve read that about owls. You can train them to hunt, too.’

‘Hm. Are owls your favourite animal, then?’

Harry shrugged. It shifted some of the tension off his shoulders. ‘I guess. But I like cats, too. And tortoises.’

‘Of course.’

If he ever became an Animagus, Harry thought, maybe he _would_ turn into a cat after all. He was too tired from the talking he’d already done to say so to Snape, though he wasn’t sure he would want to anyway.

They boarded the bus again just as dusk broke and a sheen of rain flittered down from the silky clouds. Snape kept up a steady stream of perfectly neutral conversation, which was unlike him and should have contributed to how surreal everything felt, but did the opposite. He asked Harry about Hedwig, and about Mrs Figg’s cats, and about what he would name a tortoise if he had one; he wanted to know if Harry liked all colours equally and if preferred summer to winter. He didn’t sound like he particularly cared about any of his answers, but even the briefest one Harry managed to give was a tenterhook: a source of easy proof that he had a mouth and lungs and a tongue that all worked, that he could talk and that he could breathe.

Just before midnight, they stopped for a bathroom break. Harry had started dozing off a little by then, and now everything he saw was blurrier and sadder than normally. The yellow light panels outside the petrol station seemed like they wished they could go to sleep. The gloss of rain on the asphalt made him feel cold even though the night was warm and there was little breeze.

They picked up two water bottles from the humming fridge inside the shop and stood to wait in the winding queue of exhausted passengers. A mosquito buzzed past Harry’s ear. Snape nudged him a little and told him to keep his eyes open, but it was easier said than done. At the next turn of the queue, they stepped into the chocolate aisle, where Harry tried to pick out from the blur of colours the brands he recognized. Snape let him choose a bar to try later, so he got a red one that he’d never seen before. It looked like it would have had caramel inside.

The bus rocked him into sleep, then out of it and back under. Every time he read the digital clockface over the driver’s booth, he was surprised at how much time had passed. Darkness eddied into his field of vision, then eased off for long enough that he could yawn and shift and understand he was uncomfortable. His saliva tasted of petrol and sleep.

Just after four, he woke and couldn’t sleep again. He tried position after position, rearranging his legs and even leaning forward against the back of the seat in front of him, but all of it merely made him more lucid. He gave up eventually and settled for watching the darkness sweep past the window.

Snape was awake, too, but didn’t say anything to Harry. He looked over to him and smiled though, which would have made Harry self-conscious during the day, but now in the dead of night, it made him brave.

‘What was your favourite subject when you were at school?’ he asked, because Snape hadn’t done that one.

‘I enjoyed Potions and Defence Against the Dark Arts,’ Snape said, which made Harry feel a little bad for not really liking either of those.

‘What was my mum’s?’

‘She liked Potions, too. And Charms. She was very good at Charms.’

Harry was okay at Charms, he thought.

‘And what is yours?’ Snape had leant his head back against the seat and shut his eyes, so it was easier for Harry to look at him. The orange from the road lights they passed flitted across his face. Someone snored. Even though their voices were soft murmurs, they sounded large in the humming silence of the bus.

‘Flying, I guess,’ whispered Harry. The words were coming in easier now than before, as if the sleep had cleared off some of the strangeness in his head. ‘But that’s not really a proper subject. Uh, I like Charms, too.’

Snape’s eyes were still closed. Harry began to wonder if he’d even been listening, he was silent for so long. He shuffled lower on the seat, stretching his legs until his butt rose off the cushion and cool air flowed into the tiny tunnel underneath, chilling the sweaty skin on his lower back.

‘If you’d said Potions,’ Snape told him, ‘I would have given you an Outstanding on your summer assignment. But now, I’m afraid the best you can hope for is an Acceptable.’

Harry stared at him, which Snape obviously didn’t see.

‘Politics, Mr Potter. Clearly, you still have much to learn in that area.’

Harry thought about it. ‘I want to change my answer,’ he decided.

‘Oh, you do?’

‘Yes,’ his voice hitched louder. ‘I forgot before, Potions is my favourite. It’s the best subject, better than stupid Charms or Flying or anything, and the best teacher in the whole school—'

Snape laughed. ‘Liar,’ he told Harry. ‘Go to sleep.’

Harry felt like maybe he could, now, and was about to close his eyes—when suddenly, the radio came alive, and _Life Is a Highway_ blasted through the bus at full volume.

‘Bloody hell,’ Snape groaned, then slammed his hand into the seat in front of him like it was the upholstery’s fault. That startled Harry, but the misery on Snape’s face was too funny, and try as he might, he couldn’t quite hold in the laugh.

‘Oh, this is amusing to you?’ Snape didn’t sound angry. ‘I’ve been unable to fall asleep all night, and now that I’m finally—it’s four in the morning, do we really need to hear this blasted song for the thousandth time _right now_ , can it not wait till bloody dawn?’

‘No,’ Harry choked, laughter peeling out of him more and more with each breath. ‘No, we have to listen to it now because it’s the best song in the _whole world_!’

‘I am so glad you’re enjoying this.’

Harry didn’t mean to ask, but the giggles plucked the question out of him so suddenly, he hadn’t realised until he’d already said it. ‘Can we try that chocolate bar now?’

Snape felt around his coat for a while before finally producing it. The foil crinkled under his fingers. He broke the bar roughly in half and gave Harry his piece alongside the wrapper, which was probably best since Harry had every intention of taking his time with it and otherwise the chocolate would have melted and stained his fingers. He’d tried a lot of sweets this past year, and many of them had moved or glowed or spoken; but this one tasted nicer, because they were having it in the middle of the night when they were supposed to be trying to sleep.

As Harry ate, a woman walked up the aisle to the driver’s booth and told him to turn down the music, and Snape finished his half and drifted off to sleep. His coat lay strewn haphazardly across his lap, sliding there and back with the motion of the bus. By the time he’d swallowed the last traces of caramel from his tongue, Harry’s eyes were falling shut, too.

But before he slept, he carefully lifted his shirt, pried his wand out from under the hem of his trousers, and slipped it back into the pocket of Snape’s coat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've promised someone in the comments a largely drama-free chapter for the new year, and here we are! I hope you've enjoyed this breather, and that your 2021 is shaping up nicely.
> 
> I also want to let you know that I have recently started a fic-focused tumblr. I don't expect to post on there much, but if you'd like to drop by for a chat, definitely do. You can find me at [gzdacz-writes-fic.](https://gzdacz-writes-fic.tumblr.com/)


	18. Seventeen: Tallinn to Helsinki

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sweets in brown wrappers covered the sill, twirling and glinting their miasma of colours._
> 
> _The afternoon was wearing away. If they didn’t go soon, they might miss the last ferry of the day._
> 
> _‘Do you want to take a look inside?’ Severus asked. ___

**Seventeen: Tallinn to Helsinki**

Severus wasn’t quite clear on where they were. He thought they must have been going roughly the right direction to the port; he should have perhaps paid more attention to the map. But since he wouldn’t know what time the ferry to Helsinki was until they got to the docks, there was nothing to hurry for: it might have gone by now, it might be hours still, they might arrive just at the right moment. And they’d been trapped on that infernal bus for the last two days. Their legs needed the extra stretching.

Silky clouds rolled through the golden-laid skies. The sun, when it managed to push through the loosened edges, made everything glow and bristle like hot embers, but the rain in the breeze pushed at the temperature until Severus had to button up his coat. The cobblestones were large and uneven under their feet, and he nearly wrenched his ankle out of his knee when he slipped and teetered. The house fronts were mild pinks, blues and oranges, packed and stocked on top one another as if fearing the fairy-tale had not room enough to contain them all.

They stopped at a stall with hand-stitched shawls, and a stall with lusciously golden honey, and one with intricately painted postcards. They looked into store windows and breathed in air light with the absence of petrol fumes or days-old sweat. The chill had drawn the muscles in Severus’s broken arm tight and painful, but the ache was bearable, and it fit, like an essential part of the ramble through Tallinn, like perhaps a key feature of Tallinn itself.

The boy paused at the large window into a café, where a miniature of a Ferris wheel spun in languid circles, holding on each of its arms a different hand-painted porcelain cup. Sweets in brown wrappers covered the sill, twirling and glinting their miasma of colours.

The afternoon was wearing away. If they didn’t go soon, they might miss the last ferry of the day.

‘Do you want to take a look inside?’ Severus asked. He did not expect Potter would have the confidence for an affirmative, so he took the shrug as confirmation and pushed the glass door open.

The inside smelled heady with sugar and marzipan. The ceiling was a mosaic of reds and maroons. Teaspoons clinked against the rims of gold-lined teacups and whispers of conversation echoed in Severus’s chest in languages he didn’t understand and couldn’t hope to adequately tell apart—was that Estonian? Russian? Finnish, or Swedish, maybe?

The boy was examining the marzipan horses on display, each adorned with decorative trappings as if it were on its way to the battlefield. His breath clouded the glass; his fingers left behind a smudge of grease. When he noticed, he rubbed at it, which only made it worse.

A waitress straightened her uniform, eyes affixed to Severus in expectation. He waved her off. ‘We’re just looking,’ he said, satisfied when she seemed to understand English.

She lingered though, which made the looking less entrancing. Severus tried to pretend he couldn’t see her, keeping his gaze steadily on the boy, but then that made Potter feel watched in turn, and it made the waitress feel ignored, and so none could escape the awkwardness.

‘Tallinn is the kingdom of marzipan, you know,’ she told him suddenly. ‘And we have the best of the best.’

‘Fantastic.’

‘In the Middle Ages, it was sold in apothecaries as a cure for lovesickness,’ she sounded like she’d memorised the back of a leaflet, the grammar immaculate, the words mispronounced. ‘But it works to this day: the sweetness you need to soothe a broken heart.’

She was not going to give up, Severus realised. He perused the display for the smaller offerings and indicated the cheapest. ‘We’ll take two of those.’

She gave him a winning smile that held no hint of remorse. ‘Only two, are you sure?’

‘Seeing as there are two of us here with a single heart each, that seems entirely sufficient. At least as long as the cure is as potent as you say.’

‘Of course it is,’ she scoffed. ‘The potent-est.’

She put the two marzipan shells into a little paper box, tied the ribbon and took the money; but before she let Severus have his change, she decided to torment him a little more. ‘Tallinn is the city of lost lovers, too,’ she told him, leaning over the counter so she could speak in a stage whisper. ‘You know, we have a legend here. It says that Dawn and Dusk are lost lovers, and they come out every evening and every morning to look for the other, but they can never meet. Until, on Midsummer’s Day, the longest day of the year, morning and evening happen all at once, and then just for a few minutes—that’s when Dawn and Dusk can hold hands.’

Severus thought that an unsmiling man travelling with an eleven-year-old boy were likely not the ideal target audience for this piece of tourist bait. But from the glint in her eye when she looked at him, he recognised that maybe she had more insight than he’d given her credit for. It was something in the air, something in the notes of sugar in the drizzle, it was the golden glow of the weak sun and the steady ache in Severus’s arm. He was, perhaps, just tired.

‘Yes, well,’ he cleared his throat. ‘Midsummer’s Day is in June, isn’t it? We’ve missed it.’

‘You’ll need to come back next year. And come here to buy more marzipan, yes?’

‘By then, I think our hearts will have been sufficiently mended.’ He pulled at the little box.

‘But you’ll have a whole year to break them again,’ she jibed. ‘Good luck.’

They had the shells on their walk up to the docks. Potter clearly wasn’t a fan of marzipan, but he was too polite—scared—to say. Severus’s shell melted on his tongue. He could taste it in his jaw, in his sinuses, in the tip of his head.

The last ferry of the day departed at seven-fifteen. It was barely five, but they could easily wait out the two hours and still get themselves to Helsinki long before it became unconscionable to disturb their host.

He was about to announce the plan to Potter. But then he looked at him, and the marzipan, and the golden glow, and—

‘We’ll go in the morning,’ he managed through a tightened throat. ‘Come, we’ll find a hotel for the night.’

They found a hotel alright. It rose huge and lined with white marble, with a man in front whose sole function was pulling the door open.

Severus didn’t understand why he was doing it. It was not punishment for Albus, because Albus would not care and because Severus didn’t suppose he was angry with him. If anything, he was punishing himself, because _he_ would be the one to carry the guilt for this extravagance later.

Once he’d thrown his coat over one of the two king-sized beds in their suite, and watched the boy rush over to slide open the balcony door and peer out over the low roofs of Tallinn townhouses, he realised that he _already_ felt guilty. This was just another thing to feel guilty about.

He hadn’t done anything to cross Albus. Soon, he would succeed in delivering the boy to Finland unscathed. He’d lost the mirror, yes, and he’d perhaps exposed his involvement to a man affiliated with Death Eaters—but those were risks Albus had been well-aware of. Severus had no need to feel guilty over things going wrong as expected.

Or perhaps it was less about what he had done, and more what he had thought of doing—what he had found himself wishing for despite—

‘Go shower,’ he barked at Potter. He needed him out of the room, just for a little while.

It was all Tallinn, he decided. It was the pain and the weather and the sheer exhaustion of the journey, settling low and heavy in his limbs. He would allow it tonight, and tomorrow he would take Potter to Helsinki and let Albus deal with the mess they’d made, and they would plot and use their dusty contingencies until Severus had weaselled his way back into Lucius Malfoy’s graces, and everything would be _fine._

That was one heavenly mattress on the bed though. Severus despaired already for all the nights he _wouldn’t_ be spending here.

Potter emerged from the bathroom changed into his pyjamas, but entirely too dry for having just taken a shower. ‘I couldn’t get it to work,’ he mumbled at Severus’s raised eyebrow. ‘What? The shower’s really weird.’

‘Potter, you haven’t washed in three days. If you think I am allowing you to sleep in the same room as me before you’ve had a shower, you are sadly mistaken.’

‘Fine, I’ll sleep on the balcony then.’

‘I understand that we are both tired, but I advise that you lose the attitude.’

‘I don’t have an attitude,’ the boy whined, with so much attitude it was positively coming out of his ears. ‘You said I can’t sleep here if I don’t shower, and I can’t shower because it’s not working, so I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do!’

Soon, the nightmare child wouldn’t be his problem, Severus reminded himself. Hopefully, Albus’s Finnish friend would be good with children, and after that, he would be placed with new guardians that might eventually instil in him some sense of proper behaviour. Severus only needed to survive the night.

When he pulled himself up to stand, the boy flinched. Behind the wariness in his eyes was a storm. Not Severus’s problem.

‘Come, you’re going to shower.’

‘But it’s not working,’ Potter insisted, stepping back from his extended hand. ‘Why can’t I just shower in Helsinki? An extra day won’t make a difference.’

‘Potter, you are sticky with sweat. You smell. You have grime under your fingernails. You will feel much better, and hopefully a little less defiant, once you’ve—’

‘I don’t _smell_!’ blush erupted on the boy’s face, deep and sickly. ‘I’ve washed a bit in the sink, and I don’t—I didn’t even touch anything dirty, so—’

‘For heaven’s sake, you’re not caked in mud, so I suppose if that’s your standard of cleanliness, then you’re fine as you are. But as we are well-acquainted with our own scents and thus considerably less sensitive to them, I advise that you take my word for it: you _do_ smell, Potter.’

His chin was pressed into his chest and dirty strands of hair fell over his eyes, so it took Severus a moment to realise the boy was crying. He could perhaps have handled this more delicately.

‘Look,’ he tried, annoyed at the blush that threatened to break over his own face in turn. ‘We’ve had a long journey and we’re _both_ sweaty and grimy—’

Potter shook his head frantically. ‘Don’t,’ he mumbled. When Severus pulled on his shoulder, he followed obediently, but his arms stayed looped around his frame, and he refused to look up from his own feet.

Severus flicked on the bathroom light. He did his best not to meet his reflection’s eye in the mirror.

‘Summer school is in session,’ he said lightly, swallowing down the tremble in his voice. ‘Today, we will learn how to turn the shower tap on. Watch.’

He turned the tap. It did nothing.

He turned another. Something fizzled and a bit of water spurted out the bottom, but Severus didn’t know how to move it up into the showerhead, or how to change the temperature—who on Earth needed this many knobs in the shower?

‘I’m watching,’ the boy muttered under his breath. Severus pretended not to hear him.

‘Well—it must be—’ Carefully, he stepped into the shower cabin and took a closer look at the symbols on each tap. They weren’t terribly helpful.

‘I’ve tried that one,’ Potter whispered. ‘It doesn’t do anything.’

‘No, this is ridiculous,’ Severus said as he double-checked the taps and knobs he’d tried before, turning them every which way. ‘Clearly, there’s an issue with the plumbing, we’ll have to go down to reception—’

Water burst from the rain shower suspended directly above Severus’s head.

The boy choked on a laugh. When Severus glared at him, he slapped a hand over his mouth and managed to hold his breath; but his eyes betrayed him.

‘And just what is so funny? You’ve come to me not knowing how to take a shower and I am demonstrating to you the correct method of doing so. I really don’t see what’s so amusing.’

The water was teeth-clattering cold. It ran down Severus’s back under his soaked shirt, and his hair stuck in thick strands to his cheek and neck. But if this was a game of chicken, he was not going to swerve first. He stared the boy down.

‘Do you understand the process now,’ he asked, ‘or do you need me to show you again?’

Potter’s eyes scrunched up with the effort not to laugh. Struck by inspiration, Severus turned the water off, then took the boy by the arm and pulled him inside the cabin.

‘Perhaps I should take you through it,’ he said into his ear. ‘See, Mr Potter, once you’ve undressed and set the water to your desired temperature, you simply turn this knob—’

A squeak echoed on the bathroom walls as the showerhead erupted with water.

‘—just like so.’

The boy doubled over with laughter. Severus fumbled with the knobs for a while longer until he managed to set the temperature to one that wouldn’t give Potter hypothermia, then stepped out of the shower. Rivulets of grey ran down the boy’s neck. Hopefully, he would take off his clothes and make use of the soap once Severus left him, but even if he didn’t, the water would wash away the worst of it.

After, they dressed in the heavenly soft cream robes provided by the hotel and stretched on their comforters until their bones popped and their muscles moaned. Severus had initially considered heading out for dinner, but the idea of moving made him nauseous, so he called room service instead. Potter’s eyes went wide when the silver trays were placed on top of the bed, and even once he was told to help himself, he hesitated for a good while before plucking up the courage to reach for the fork. They ate fish, and honeyed rye bread, and wild mushrooms and pickled everything; they ate potatoes and dumplings and tiny pastries lathed in cream. Potter took a particular liking to the complimentary bar of blueberry white chocolate, and he had more of that than he’d eaten any proper food, but again, that was hardly Severus’s problem.

Soon, the last winks of sunlight were petalling over the wooden floor, the pristinely white sheets, the boy’s cheeks as he slept shallowly, one leg hanging off the edge of the bed. A man came in to collect the empty trays, skulking like a creature of the night, his steps soft and careful. Severus pulled the heavy curtains until the room was dark and quiet; he didn’t want to see dusk come.

Potter jerked, then jerked again. He mumbled something through tightened lips. When Severus touched his arm, he found it tense as could be, the tendons straining so much they bulged skin. There were a great many things he could be dreaming about, but it seemed too early for night terrors: he’d only just dropped off. It was just the stresses of the day, perhaps, escaping through the cracks as lucidity abandoned him.

Severus sat with him until the jerking subsided, just watching, fingers twined loosely around the twig of his wrist.

The sun must have set by now, he thought. It would be tomorrow soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that took a turn toward the melancholic. I suppose it's only right, as we're transitioning into what feels like Part Two of this story: on Saturday, we're finally arriving in Finland! Who knew they could actually make it.
> 
> As always, thank you to everyone reading and reviewing!


	19. Eighteen: Helsinki to Inari

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _‘I have Potter. We’ve arrived in Helsinki,’ Snape told the doe. ‘We’re both well. We’re waiting at the agreed location.’_
> 
> _The doe ambled away, leaving behind a glittery trail, before they were both swallowed by the wind._

**Eighteen: Helsinki to Inari**

The lake stretched and shimmered a ghostly blue. Beyond lay a bushy park, grown over and around a large house with windows like gloomy eyes.

Harry still thought it was weird for a lake to lie so close to the seashore: he’d always thought places were one or the other. But what Snape wanted from him was even weirder than that.

‘It’s summer,’ Harry reminded him. ‘Lakes don’t freeze over in summer.’

‘No,’ Snape agreed, a sigh of impatience in his voice, ‘but like I’ve said, the lake is held under a season spell that responds to magic. If a muggle were to step onto the water now, they would fall in, but you will find yourself right in winter wonderland. Look.’

As he said it, he took a step forward. Harry’s breath hitched.

Snape disappeared.

A moment later, he stepped back onto shore, straight out of nothing. ‘See?’

‘You went invisible,’ Harry told him, ‘so no.’

‘Yes, well, I didn’t drown. Come on, it’s a bit of a walk, and I am in dire need of coffee.’

Harry had been excited to be near magic again, now that they were in Finland and the Ministry wouldn’t be able to trace him. And he’d been excited to visit the magical island in the middle of a lake, because it sounded, well, magical. He would only have preferred it if they could do the normal thing and rent out a boat.

He had seen a film like this on TV one time: Dudley and his friend got bored during their pyjama party and left it on as they went upstairs to play on the console. To get the treasure, the hero had to have the faith to walk straight over an abyss, and he managed that alright in the end. Harry supposed with a lake instead of an abyss, he didn’t have it quite as bad.

But Snape had had enough of his dawdling. He grabbed Harry under the armpits and swung him right over the edge of the lake, until Harry felt—his eyes were screwed shut and in his ears he heard only the thumping of his heart—solid ground under his feet, and breathed in the sharp scent of frost.

He was standing on ice so thick, you could not hope to glimpse the water underneath. The lake had transformed into a stretch of white, the snow light and tinsel like glazing on a cake. The opposite shore with the creepy house was still all summer, and the ground Harry had just stood on dusted with fresh grass, but between the two lay a bone-deep chill, the sun so sharp it was blinding, the ice creaking dry and firm.

‘That wasn’t very nice,’ he complained to Snape. ‘Just because I’m smaller doesn’t mean you can just pick me up and put me wherever you want.’

‘I think it does mean exactly that, actually.’

Snape pulled out his wand, which he directed at Harry’s chest. A blanket of warmth cocooned him like an embrace. Snape shut his eyes for a moment, like he was focusing on the magic flowing through him. Then, he aimed the wand at his broken arm.

Something inside crunched. They both winced. ‘Alright, let’s go,’ Snape announced, shaking it off.

The island was visible now, and they headed that direction, lips clamped to protect their teeth and breaths coming out of their noses in huffs of condensation. It wasn’t so much an island as a bunch of buildings, Harry thought, erected seemingly right on the ice, red-roofed and painted a pale yellow.

A wooden pier grew out of the raised cobblestone and cut into the ice, supports buried under the surface. Though the spell Snape had cast kept Harry warm in the chest and stomach, his toes and his cheeks were freezing over, and his fingers were lame and uncooperative as he wrapped them around the wooden fencing to help himself up. His foot slipped backwards on the ice and he would have knocked his chin straight into one of the beams if Snape hadn’t caught him by the scruff of the neck.

The trees were wintery-bare and threaded through with strings of golden fairy lights. The chill was less here, air warmed by the fires burning merrily inside: through foggy windows, Harry glimpsed someone’s living room, a clothing store, a bookshop and a wand shop. The houses were pushed close, the few streets between them gate alleys and narrow passages cramped into the breathing spaces, and they all leaned over the heart of the island, where a conservatory sat precariously on the cobblestone, filled to bursting with lush greenery of all shapes and sizes.

Snape paused by the entrance. The tip of his wand lit silver, and then a shape emerged and fell onto the ground, moulding and shimmering until it grew into a doe, translucent like a ghost but glowing with a cool light that made something in Harry ache.

‘I have Potter. We’ve arrived in Helsinki,’ Snape told the doe. ‘We’re both well. We’re waiting at the agreed location.’

The doe ambled away, leaving behind a glittery trail, before they were both swallowed by the wind.

‘What was _that_?’ Harry asked without thinking.

‘A Patronus,’ Snape said. ‘It will carry the message to the Headmaster’s friend in Inari.’

‘It’s very pretty,’ Harry commended him. ‘Are we going to learn how to do that at school?’

‘When you’re much older.’

As soon as Snape pulled open the conservatory doors, warm air blew into their faces. Inside, smells of clove and cinnamon intermingled with the heady scents of wet earth and exotic flowers. The dark wooden benches by the tables were covered with reindeer skins, and the witches and wizards sat astride were drinking from large glass mugs. Just beneath the high glass ceiling, fairies darted from tree crown to tree crown.

Snape led Harry to a table in the corner, just off-side of the large fireplace burning purple. Directly above stood a tree with long, thorny garlands of viciously orange flowers, like the arms of an octopus. They moved, too: one stole their menu, then another wrapped around Harry’s wrist and Snape had to slap it away.

They were halfway through their drinks—Harry’s was a red sort-of juice served hot and spiced, which did wonders for his stiff hands and aching teeth—when the flames in the fireplace blared higher, and two women stumbled out, one supporting the other, who was coughing ash.

‘You’re alive,’ the first woman said evenly when she saw them. ‘I should have been more optimistic.’

The woman with the stain of ash on her chin rubbed at it, then gave Harry a toothy smile. She was that odd age Harry could never put a finger on: sort of older than Snape, but not yet granny-like. Her brown hair was pleated back loosely and she wore a shirt and trousers patterned with flowers.

Snape stood up to greet them. The ashless woman, fair and tall and stiff, introduced herself as Leeni Huhtala, and the one who’d smiled only as Kauko.

‘I’m Harry,’ he said meekly when Kauko leaned over the table to shake his hand. At Snape’s glare, he got up as well. ‘Nice to meet you.’

‘You need to send word to Albus,’ Leeni was telling Snape. ‘He kept telling me he was confident you’re alright, but I think he was lying. Are we going then?’

‘Let them finish their coffee,’ Kauko said in a half-whisper.

‘Alright, yes. We’ll wait.’

Leeni sank to the bench at Snape’s side, brushing invisible flecks of dirt off her straight-cut dress. Kauko sidled in next to Harry, tossing him another happy smile. Everyone was very quiet. Harry started chugging down the rest of his drink, wanting to cut the awkwardness short.

‘What happened?’ Leeni was playing with one of the branches, twining it around her fingers, and kept her eyes steadily on the flowers. ‘We know you Apparated away when they found you in Berlin.’

‘We had to make a substantial detour,’ Snape said without feeling. ‘And we lost the mirror during the scuffle.’

Harry appreciated Snape saying _we_ when it had been Harry who’d lost the mirror. And he hadn’t even lost it, actually, he’d exploded it with his wild magic or something—not that Snape knew that. But he found Leeni odd, all quiet and poker-faced and with an intensity behind her eyes, and he didn’t want to give her any reason to become angry with him.

‘You must have seen a fair few places all over Europe then,’ Kauko said cheerily. ‘What was your favourite, Harry?’

Harry thought about it. ‘Zakopane, I guess. That’s in Poland, in the mountains.’

Snape stared at him. ‘We were nearly _murdered_ in Zakopane, Potter.’

‘Yeah, but before that, it was nice.’ At Kauko’s inquiring look, he explained, ‘The mountains were pretty, and we played board games and table tennis mostly. And the food was good, and there was a cool dog.’

A ghost of a smile flittered across Snape’s face. ‘We stayed in a four-star hotel in Tallinn,’ he said, ‘but I see now why people say there is little point taking children anywhere nice.’

Harry had already felt horribly guilty about the hotel—he was sure Snape would get in trouble over it if Dumbledore ever found out—and now he felt even worse for making Snape think he didn’t even appreciate it. ‘I liked Tallinn, too!’ he said quickly. ‘It’s got like, second place.’

Once Snape finished his coffee, they queued up in front of the fireplace.

‘Huhtala, Inari,’ Leeni told them. ‘That’s what you say. Can the little one repeat that?’

Harry coloured. ‘I’m not _little,_ ’ he said. ‘I’m not deaf or stupid, either.’

Leeni remained unaffected. ‘If you can’t say it right, you’ll have to travel with an adult or you’ll get lost.’

‘Don’t worry, Harry,’ Kauko grinned, ‘I have to hold my adult’s hand, too.’

‘You do?’

‘I’m a muggle. If I tried Flooing alone—well, I don’t actually know what would happen.’

‘Death by immolation, I imagine,’ said Snape.

Harry watched as Kauko looped her arm around Leeni’s and stepped into the fireplace without a second’s thought, like she’d done it countless times before. His Aunt or Uncle would _never_ trust Harry enough to follow him into the fire like that. But Kauko was a muggle and she wasn’t at all scared; how? Would it be very rude to ask her?

‘Alright, your hand, Potter,’ Snape ordered as he grabbed a handful of Floo powder from the mantle.

‘I can do it on my own,’ Harry reminded him.

‘I’m sure you can, but you will not.’

The fireplace spat them out onto the worn floor in a living room. Leeni and Kauko were there already, waiting by the window. Kauko was rubbing at her chin with a tissue, trying to get the ash out of skin.

‘I’ll show you the bedrooms,’ Leeni announced into the air.

It was odd, to arrive in a house without first seeing the outside of it. The wooden floors crinkled and tapped under their feet; golden light poured through the west-side windows. On the first floor, they went into a miniature library, fit snugly between the bathroom and storage, and now half-heartedly converted into a guest room. Books lined every surface; a reading chair sat pressed so close to the bedframe that it would have been impossible to sit in it unless one put their feet up on the pillows. Snape would be sleeping here, Leeni said.

For Harry’s bedroom, they had to climb up a precarious ladder to the attic. The wooden beams that held up the roof brushed the tips of Snape’s and Leeni’s heads. There wasn’t a bed, only a bare double mattress on the floor, and an armoire that creaked when you stepped close to it.

‘You’ll be giving him sheets, I imagine,’ Snape’s eyebrow was high up his forehead.

‘There are some in the top drawer,’ Leeni waved a hand at the armoire. ‘I’ll bring him a duvet later.’

‘Well, could you bring it _now_?’

Leeni threw him a glare. Harry felt a stab of sympathy: she was a bit eerie, but he understood how annoying Snape could get. But she didn’t even try to argue, and went instead to climb down the ladder and do as asked.

Harry kneeled in front of the window that sat at the lowest point between the joists. The bare mattress and the dark smell of the attic weren’t great, sure, but the view more than made up for it: he saw a dark, sprawling lake, peppered in the distance with what looked to be islands. A pine branch brushed the window pane and a large spider dangled from its web just beneath the rusty handle.

Then, with no sound at all, the spider vanished.

Harry turned around just in time to see Snape putting his wand away.

‘What did you do to the spider?’

‘I got rid of it.’

This is why no one likes you, Harry thought, temper rising. ‘Why? I didn’t ask you to get rid of it—it could have been my friend.’

Only once he’d said it, he realised how incredibly childish he sounded. But he’d been reminded of the spiders he used to befriend back in his cupboard at the Dursleys’. He would often pretend they could hear him as he told them about his day.

He prayed no one would ever find out about that.

‘I was kidding,’ he corrected quickly. His heart beat heavy in his chest.

Snape hummed his doubt, then looked around the attic again and sighed. ‘Would you prefer to swap rooms?’

Harry stared at him. ‘Why can’t I sleep here?’

‘You won’t be scared?’

Harry followed Snape’s gaze around the room. Try as he might, he couldn’t imagine what it was that Snape thought he might be scared of.

‘I’m not afraid of spiders if that’s what you mean,’ he said slowly.

‘No, Potter, all I mean is—ah, never mind,’ Snape grunted, looking away from Harry like he was suddenly embarrassed. ‘You want to sleep here, you’ll sleep here, why do I even bother.’

Harry was still mighty confused by the time Leeni returned with the duvet and a pillow. Snape dressed the bed for him then as if Harry was an invalid. That was what Aunt Petunia used to say whenever he didn’t know how to do something in the kitchen, or when he was being slow. _Are you an invalid? Or do you suppose I am your servant?_

Watching him dress the bed, he pretended that Snape _was_ his servant. He slaved his days away doing menial chores and getting rid of every spider that Harry pointed out to him, and never received a word of thanks—in this fantasy, Harry was a selfish and cruel master.

‘Kauko will take the boy out to pick cloudberries,’ Leeni said. ‘You can get in touch with Albus in the meantime.’

Harry wanted to stay and eavesdrop on what Snape talked to Dumbledore about, but he also thought _cloudberries_ sounded rather special.

Snape was opening his mouth, but then his eyes snagged on Harry’s face and he seemed to reconsider. ‘May I speak with you both downstairs for a minute?’ he asked tightly.

He’d meant Leeni and Kauko, Harry knew, but he still followed them down the ladder. On the second-to-last-rung, he stopped and put his hand out for Snape to take.

‘Can you help me down?’ he asked, significantly more politely than imaginary Harry did when he ordered his servant around. Still, both fantasy Snape and real Snape took his hand and lowered him onto the floor, which was entirely unnecessary and made Harry feel like a prince or something.

He’d meant to try and eavesdrop, but the porch distracted him. You could see the lake from here, but different: from the lower vantage point, it looked almost like the ocean. A rocking chair sat to the side of a table covered with a crocheted napkin in deep blue. Mosquitoes buzzed around his head as Harry swung back and forth, watching the sun peek out from behind the treeline and disperse in the needlework. It sat so low in the sky that it seemed like it should be setting any time now, only it had been like that since they’d arrived and still hadn’t shown signs of budging into dusk.

When they reappeared, Leeni and Kauko were carrying large woven baskets.

‘Change of plans,’ Kauko announced resolutely. ‘We’re all going. Are you ready, Harry?’

Harry jumped down from the chair to indicate his readiness. ‘Professor Snape’s coming, too?’

‘Oh, no, he needs to stay and talk to Albus—Professor Dumbledore,’ Kauko explained. ‘We’ll bring him lots of cloudberries though, won’t we?’

Harry nodded, trying to hide his disappointment. He would have been fine going alone with Kauko, but he found Leeni intimidating, and would have preferred to have Snape there to run interference.

The forest deepened quickly, and soon Harry lost all sense of direction. They jumped over some thorny bushes, balanced on a wooden beam thrown across a nettle minefield, and emerged eventually onto a wide clearing where the cloudberries lived. Kauko showed him: they looked much like raspberries, only they were a light orange and tasted like honeyed apricots with something tart and odd underneath. Harry had to try a couple until he decided he liked them.

They picked in silence for a while, the sun cross-hatching on their hands and faces. The air smelled crisp, like a note of winter in the middle of summer, and Harry couldn’t make up his mind whether he was warm or cold.

‘He’s very protective of you, your Professor Snape,’ Kauko spoke up, her tone conversational. She hadn’t looked up from her picking.

‘Kauko,’ Leeni said with a note of warning.

‘I’m just saying,’ she grinned. ‘You must be a real teacher’s pet in his classroom, huh? What does he teach?’

Harry choked on a laugh. ‘I’m not a teacher’s pet.’ The very idea made him shiver. ‘He teaches Potions and I’m horrible at Potions, so—besides, I’m in Gryffindor and Professor Snape’s head of Slytherin.’

Kauko gave him a blank look.

‘Uh, we have these houses at Hogwarts, and Gryffindors and Slytherins are enemies, kind of. It’s difficult to explain, but yeah, he doesn’t like me.’ That seemed unfair, so he adjusted, ‘At least at school.’

Kauko hummed, unconvinced. ‘Are Potions hard then? Leeni, are you any good with Potions?’

‘It’s all handling icky little worms and slime. You know these mud soups you said you made when you were little? It’s like that—disgusting.’

‘It’s not like that,’ Harry disagreed, chest flaring with offense. ‘It’s really difficult and you need a lot of skill and precision to do it, or you can blow yourself up just like _that_.’

‘Oh my,’ Kauko laughed. ‘I was going to say that maybe Professor Snape could give you some extra lessons while you’re here—there’s not much to do around, you know—but I don’t think I want to risk the house blowing up to pieces.’

‘It’s summer anyway,’ Harry pointed out, watching Leeni’s disinterest from the corner of his eye. ‘I’m not going to do extra Potions work in summer.’

But it did give him an idea. Sure, Snape had hated him even before Harry proved himself useless at Potions, but he seemed okay with him now; so perhaps if Harry studied a bit harder, he could keep this new, nice Snape when they got back to Hogwarts. It made him anxious to even consider working extra on _Potions_ of all things, but if feigning an interest meant Snape would continue being decent to him, it was probably worth it.

‘The reason I started talking about it, actually,’ Kauko continued, ‘well, the Professor’s told us that you’ve had some bad experiences with muggles who didn’t like wizards. That’s why Leeni came with—’

‘That was a private conversation,’ Leeni hissed.

‘I just think it’s best to talk about things like that,’ Kauko shrugged. ‘I want you to know, Harry, that I don’t have a problem with magic or anything—God, I think it’s really fun, actually. But if I ever say something that upsets you, you can come tell me, right? I won’t be offended.’

‘Oh,’ was all that Harry managed at first. ‘No, I don’t—I’m not scared of you or anything like that.’

‘Okay, good,’ Kauko smiled. ‘But keep me posted.’

He concentrated on the berries for a while, mulling it all over.

‘So, you’re not afraid of magic, right?’ he asked, throwing her a quick glance.

‘I mean, I guess that depends. If I met some strange wizard in a dark alley who pointed his wand at me, then probably yeah, I’d be afraid. And I know that there are some wizards out there who don’t like muggles very much. I guess they’d scare me, too. But other than Leeni, I’ve only really met wizards and witches who are friends with her—I know none of them would hurt me.’

That made sense. ‘Well, Professor Snape and I wouldn’t hurt you either,’ he assured her.

‘Thanks, Harry,’ she said.

They didn’t talk much more after, but it wasn’t awkward, just quiet. Mosquitoes buzzed and grass crunched under their feet. The bushes pricked his fingers.

Harry wouldn’t mind staying here until that elusive sunset, he decided—and then for hours still after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to all those who've been leaving kudos and comments! And to any readers hailing from the States, I'm sending positive vibes your way-- and hope you're taking care of yourselves in this insane time.
> 
> We're still in Inari on Wednesday, and Dumbledore makes a reappearance. See you then.


	20. Nineteen: Inari

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _‘A measure of trust between the two of you would be greatly beneficial to us all, I think,’ Albus mused, eyes averted in respect for Severus’s turmoil. ‘But then I’ve always believed so. Let us make use of it now, while we can—and when the time comes, we can always adjust.’_

**Nineteen: Inari**

‘Well,’ Albus said.

Severus had sat him down for this. He looked odd by the worn table, backdropped by a damaged wall and a poster for some Finnish rock band. Severus diverted his eyes: for whatever reason, he couldn’t bear to look at him.

‘Yes,’ he agreed.

He’d told him everything: about Valerian and about Lamotte, about the abuse and the wild magic and Agata’s death. It sounded worse when he was saying it all at once, but it also sounded shallow. It felt as though he should be explaining better, or providing context, because he could see in Albus’s eyes that he didn’t understand the _scope_ of what had happened, the sheer extent of it—

‘You’ve given me a lot to consider, Severus,’ Albus smiled, and that smile melted something in him. He suddenly wanted to sit down, too, and possibly cry. ‘I’ll need some time to think through the implications, I think, so do forgive me—but all I can think to say now is that I am very glad you are both well.’

Severus fixed his gaze on the Savoy vase in the centre of the kitchen table. He thought he knew the name of the flowers it held, that he’d learnt about them many years ago in Herbology, but he couldn’t access it at all. Something beginning with an _m,_ he thought.

‘How is the trial going?’ he asked. It came out accusatory.

‘I remain optimistic. Your adventures in Berlin have helped us a great deal. The Prophet had a feature on the unlawful pursuit of a minor on holiday, and a journalistic investigation into how the Ministry is using the tracking spell data—very good instincts there, Severus. Cornelius is in quite a bit of trouble with Germany these days.’

‘I’m glad I’ve provided you some amusement, Headmaster, but Lamotte—’

‘The Ministry claims they don’t know who Harry was with,’ Albus said. ‘I cannot be sure, but it does appear that he did not see you. In any case, we’ll need to let Lucius know eventually, I suppose—but it would be best if he heard it from you.’

Severus sat down, relief spasming through his body.

‘You want me to tell him where Potter is?’

‘I want you to tell him where Harry is and that you’ve helped take him out of the country, yes. We’ll decide on the specifics, but hopefully we can present this as a peace offering. We’ll have to wait until I am confident about the trial outcome, until we’re just short of victory.’

He nodded. He was about to say something else about this plan, there were details that needed ironing out even if the premise was sound—but what came out of his mouth was, ‘Potter knows I was a Death Eater. And he knows about Lily.’

Albus was silent for a while, just watching him. Maybe Severus wanted him angry. Disappointed. Either and both.

‘I’m glad,’ he decided.

Severus snorted. ‘Oh, are you?’

Albus gave him a private smile. ‘I might have preferred to dispense of the information in a more controlled manner, where the controlling factor would be, naturally, solely my own purpose—but I am happy for you, Severus. I hope this has brought you some solace.’

Any answer he might have given would surely choke him, so he said nothing.

‘A measure of trust between the two of you would be greatly beneficial to us all, I think,’ Albus mused, eyes averted in respect for Severus’s turmoil. ‘But then I’ve always believed so. Let us make use of it now, while we can—and when the time comes, we can always adjust.’

_Adjust_. Any trust between him and Potter was tentative, and it wouldn’t be hard to adjust, not at all—when the Dark Lord returned, when Severus had to alienate the boy, when he had to sow again the seeds of doubt. He could imagine it now: it would take barely any effort at all.

Severus wanted to shout at him, but he didn’t know what the words would be.

The front door banged open. Albus rose to greet them.

Voices poured high and excited through the doorway. Severus fished out a few words here and there, things about berries and dinner and moving into the sitting room. The rest was a hum in front of his eyes, dull and painful.

He shook it off. He had to shake it off.

Leeni and Kauko pressed past him into the kitchen to get started on the food, and Severus followed the screeches in the woodwormed floor into the large room at the back of the house, where Albus had already sat Potter down on the sofa and brought a smile to his face. More poetry, probably.

‘Ah, Severus. I was just about to speak with Harry about his magic—will you join us?’

He sank into the armchair opposite the two of them. They sat identically on the two sides of the sofa: backs straight, chins tucked into their chests, old and young.

‘Now, Harry, this wild magic of yours,’ Albus spoke with a glint in his eye. ‘Let me make sure first that I have all the facts. You used wild magic when you fought Professor Quirrell, and you used it again a few days ago to stop another witch from hurting Professor Snape, is that correct?’

Potter nodded.

‘And those have been the only times you’ve managed to access it?’

‘I mean, I’ve sort of felt it sometimes.’ At Albus’s patient smile, he elaborated, ‘I’m not sure if it’s the same thing. But sometimes, I sort of feel this—like warmth, or like tickling or something. It’s difficult to explain, but it feels the same as when I use the magic, only less intense.’

‘It makes sense to me,’ Albus said, which was clearly all that the boy needed to hear, because he sagged in relief. ‘Is that all?’

Potter bit his lip. ‘The mirror,’ he muttered.

‘The mirror—you mean the mirror Professor Snape and I used to communicate?’

‘Yes,’ he looked to Severus, then stared into his lap, muscles tight with trepidation. ‘I felt the magic with that, too. And when the Aurors were chasing me, I tried to use it to call you, sir, but I made it shatter. Not on the pavement or anything, just—with magic, I guess. Sorry.’

‘That’s alright, Harry,’ Albus looked pensive. ‘It is interesting. The mirror is very old and it was forged by Goblins, who are known to make use of natural magic from time to time—I suppose owing to your affinity, you must have drawn a little too much from the well, shall we say, and the conduit could not take it. That is, at least, the only explanation I can think of right now. Did you have any other questions, Harry?’

Potter gave a one-shouldered shrug.

‘Potter is concerned that having these powers makes him a bad person,’ Severus provided.

The boy sent him a glare that would have read as scary if he weren’t half Severus’s size.

‘Oh, Harry,’ Albus lay a hand on his shoulder. Potter stiffened minutely; a wave of satisfaction rolled through Severus. ‘You have to understand that most wizards are capable of learning how to use wild magic—and that is not perhaps the right name for it. _Natural magic_ , we also call it. It is the magic held in the lands, the crags and the waters of the Earth. In ancient constructions, sometimes, or things so old and unchangeable as love. As a wizard, you have magic of your own, right here—’ he flattened his palm gently against the boy’s chest ‘—and it is easy to master and wield, because it is your own. But there is only so much magic that can fit into one’s own chest, isn’t there? Think about how much can fit into a place, into a river. How much could the lake Inari hold?’

Potter chuckled. ‘A lot, I guess.’

‘A lot. But to use it, we must open ourselves to it. We must seek beyond merely who we are and what we have—and it seems that you are naturally more open than most. I will not lie to you, Harry, it can be a dangerous power. The magic you are using doesn’t belong to you, it belongs to the source you draw from—it will not obey you easily, and if you pull on it hard enough, it may erupt and become impossible to stopper. I am not saying this to scare you, merely to advise caution.’

The boy nodded, overwhelmed but hanging onto clarity. ‘Sir, could you—do you know how to use it? Could you teach me?’

‘I have dabbled, Harry, but I am afraid my skills will not be enough to provide instruction.’

Potter’s face fell.

‘But it just so happens that your host Leeni is quite proficient at natural magic.’

Of course she is, Severus thought.

‘I would like to request that she teach you a thing or two,’ Albus did not miss Severus’s eyeroll, and was now fighting to keep the smile off his face. ‘An introduction to the art, if you please. Would that be agreeable, Harry?’

‘Okay, but—so, that means I’m going to stay here for now,’ Potter threw him a cautious glance. ‘Is Professor Snape going to stay as well, or is he going back to England?’

‘I don’t want you to misunderstand, Harry: I trust Leeni completely,’ Albus said, eyes cutting to Severus. ‘But I will feel much better if Severus remains here with you until you’re both able to come back to Britain.’

When the boy looked at him again, Severus gave a nod. His neck felt stiff.

‘Does Voldemort know it?’ Potter switched tracks, seemingly satisfied with his previous line of inquiry. ‘Natural magic? Is that why he’s so powerful?’

Albus smiled: it was the question he’d been waiting for. ‘No, Harry,’ he said. ‘Once upon a time, Voldemort was indeed a very powerful wizard with an abundance of magic at his disposal. But he was an egotist, one man on a journey for absolute power. It takes an open mind and an open heart, Harry, to forget your own strength, to reach out and ask for help. It is not something that Lord Voldemort is capable of doing.’

Their eyes met over the boy’s head. The words of the Prophecy echoed against Severus’s skull; he felt a little sick and a little triumphant.

‘I suppose we should go and join our hosts for dinner,’ Albus rose, shaking off the mood like it was a speckle of dust on his cloak. ‘Kauko has promised me my first taste of reindeer—have you had it before, Harry?’

Potter shook his head, looking like he would very much prefer to keep it that way.

When he went to follow Albus out of the room, Severus reached for his wrist.

‘A moment, Potter.’

He seemed only mildly fearful, which meant that if Severus kept a level head, he could perhaps do this without feeling like a monster by the end. ‘Do you know what respect is, Mr Potter?’

‘Uh,’ he shifted as if to get away from Severus’s hold but gave up halfway through. ‘It’s kind of difficult to explain.’

‘An example then. Would one, say, without good reason tell a lie to someone they respected?’

His shoulders drew forward. He was catching up. ‘No,’ he said with a sigh. ‘I’m sorry that I lied about the mirror—’

‘I’m not interested in an apology. I would like you to show me a modicum of respect by assuring this will not happen again.’

‘It won’t,’ he grimaced, like the words themselves hurt him.

‘Good.’

They went into the kitchen, where the table was already half-set. Albus smiled invitingly at Harry, but the boy seemed not to notice, and pushed himself onto the bench by Severus’s side. He was only placating him, Severus knew. Still, the feeling that enveloped him at seeing Albus denied was too ugly to give voice to.

Leeni busied herself ladling food onto everyone’s plate, eyes set in concentration as she registered their preferences. Potter was staring down the reindeer meat with clear foreboding. When she got to him, he looked at Severus imploringly.

‘Just vegetables for the boy, I think,’ he told her. She gave no sign that she’d heard him, but filled the plate as instructed.

He could just imagine how stilted the conversation would have been, this first night in, if not for Albus. He asked Kauko about reindeer and Leeni about house renovations, and he interrogated Potter quite thoroughly on his short-lived friendship with Hetzel’s sister back in Belgium. The reindeer meat was tender yet surprisingly heavy, and Severus grew full quickly. Conversation flowed around and through him; it seemed like it was already late, yet the sun hung insistently in the sky, restless.

‘Albus told me you’re a Leglimens,’ Leeni addressed him suddenly. It seemed to have come out of the blue, but then again, he hadn’t really been listening. ‘Is that true?’

‘Yes.’

She nodded to herself, satisfied. ‘I’m not, but I find it interesting. You’ll have to tell me about it some time.’

‘Alright,’ he agreed lamely. Talking with her was like playing a game whose rules hadn’t been explained to him; he couldn’t at all follow her pace, or even quite establish what it was.

‘What’s that, a Leglimens?’ Kauko asked.

Leeni said something curt in Finnish, which Severus assumed a translation of the word. ‘He’s able to look into your mind,’ she said in English, accent cresting as she switched.

‘Wait, really?’

Leeni embarked on a longer explanation then, which Severus had no interest in listening to. He sipped his water. The strange anger that had perched itself in his chest when Albus first stepped foot into the house had left him feeling morose, empty and rung-out.

‘You can read people’s minds?’ Harry sidled closer, his voice a shade away from whisper.

‘No. The mind is an infinitely complex thing, Potter. I could use a spell to glimpse _some_ of your thoughts and memories. Or I can attempt to breach your mind wandless, in which case I would be able to see only your immediate thoughts.’

He took him by the chin and angled his head up, so they were looking one another in the eye. ‘Focus on something specific. A shape, a colour, a word, anything.’

‘Okay,’ he chuckled nervously. ‘Do you want a hint? Like, a category or something?’

Severus smiled. ‘No. You’re thinking of your feline friend from the restaurant in Latvia.’

It was nothing more than a circus trick, but it worked a charm. ‘How did you do that?’ the boy exclaimed. ‘Wait, actually, I can do it too.’

‘Oh, can you?’

‘Yes. I’ll show you. Just whatever you do, _don’t_ think of pink elephants. Okay? Think about anything other than pink elephants.’

He narrowed his eyes in mock focus.

‘You’re thinking of—pink elephants.’

‘My, my,’ Severus hummed. ‘Astonishing. A natural Leglimens.’

Potter grinned.

Kauko got up then and started gathering the empty plates. The boy jumped up to help, and the whole of the commotion grew until Severus decided it was fair play to excuse himself and hide away for a while.

Then, he noticed Albus watching him.

‘What?’ he barked.

‘You’re very good with him,’ Albus said softly. He smiled, then, and peered down at his wrist. ‘Well, it’s getting late. I will have a word with Leeni and then I’ll be away—but Severus, before I go, I must ask. Have I done anything to anger you?’

‘No,’ Severus heard himself say. ‘Of course not.’

‘You have been upset since I first got here, I think.’

‘I have not. I am simply tired, Headmaster. I would appreciate it if you dropped the subject.’

Albus inclined his head. ‘Of course. In that case, I wish you a good night, Severus.’

That same rage from before bloomed in his chest, and grew, and grew more, until he couldn’t see or hear, until he was nodding and saying _good night_ and walking steadily upstairs, his body and his mind two separate entities that only happened to exist in the same place.

He locked the door to his bedroom and sat down on the mattress, head between his knees.

No, Albus hadn’t done anything to anger him. He hadn’t done anything at all that Severus might begrudge.

But he hadn’t told him either what Severus had only just realised he’d wanted to hear, and it was _that_ , that was the source of the cold rage in him that he could neither contain nor channel.

He hadn’t told him and he wouldn’t tell him, and Severus was a bloody fool to imagine it even for a second, and yet— _You’ve done enough,_ imaginary Albus was saying, his voice a hush, his eyes a promise— _you’re very good with him—you’ve done enough, you don’t have to do this anymore, you can go—take the boy and go._

In the end, the only person he could rage against was himself: for believing even for a moment that such a thing were possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> Saunas and lessons and rows coming on Saturday. See you then :)


	21. Twenty: Inari (II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He’d started to believe it, he realised. Not in any one moment, but gradually, half-aware. He’d started to seriously believe that he wouldn’t have to go back, that Snape had believed him and told Dumbledore as promised. Even the fantasy of this new family he might go to flickered on the side-lines of his mind, still too risky to indulge in but a wisp of promise, possibility. And now, he knew the truth._

**Twenty: Inari (II)**

‘Ready,’ Leeni said from behind him. Her arms hovered level with Harry’s waist, ready for catching. So far, she’d caught him every time, and every time he felt a little less worried.

He concentrated on how the grass felt on his bare feet. The tingle of magic was just there, in easy reach; it tasted like frost and the sun, and like the cloudberry pancakes he’d had for breakfast.

He imagined that taste taking shape, becoming a breeze and next a gust, until once again he felt on his chest the touch of dozens of invisible fingers. They pushed, or perhaps it was the ground that tilted beneath his feet, but Harry was falling backward now, straight into Leeni’s ready hold.

With an oomph, she set him back to his feet again. ‘Half-good,’ she said.

‘I just don’t have enough time,’ Harry argued. ‘How am I supposed to imagine things and pull on magic and all that, when I’m just thinking about how I’m falling?’

Leeni was able to, of course: she’d showed him yesterday morning. She plucked magic from the ground and she made it push on her and catch her mid-drop, and then finally set her back to her feet—which looked great and Harry _did_ want to learn, only there wasn’t a spell or a formula, there was only _trying_. They’d been trying ever since.

‘It’s instinct,’ Leeni sat in the grass, ankles crossed and hands flat on her knees like a good pre-schooler. Harry didn’t think she liked him very much, but she never got impatient with him or raised her voice or anything. It seemed as though it didn’t matter to her much whether he succeeded or failed. ‘When I’m falling, I want to be caught. And then I know I will be, and I am.’

‘I want to be caught too! It’s just not working for me.’

Leeni didn’t think this was a big deal. ‘You’re interacting with natural magic. That is what matters.’

Right. They’d been interacting with natural magic for days: sitting in it and smelling it and feeling around to find its hotspots. Well, Harry was sick of it. He wanted to _do_ something.

‘I should be learning to fight and stuff,’ he said. ‘That’s when I actually use it, even though I don’t really know how, and since my life’s pretty weird—I should be learning how to push _someone else_. Like, fight back but not kill the person, you know?’

Leeni nodded, eyes fixed lazily on the rolling clouds. He’d used that argument before.

‘We could do a little,’ he tried. ‘We don’t have to tell him—’

‘I don’t lie,’ she cut in sharply. Harry cringed. ‘Don’t ask again.’

He didn’t. He only kicked at the grass in frustration.

This was all Snape’s fault. It was Snape who’d lectured the two of them for ten minutes about what Leeni should and should not be teaching during these lessons, as if he even knew anything about natural magic. Leeni was the expert, not Snape. Snape just had an opinion and assumed the rest of the world cared.

And that wasn’t the only topic Snape had an opinion on, either. He’d told Kauko yesterday that Harry wouldn’t be getting seconds even though Harry wanted them, and she’d offered, and so what was the need for Snape’s involvement? The day before that, he’d told Leeni that Harry wasn’t well enough for a lesson and they should skip it, just because Harry hadn’t slept well and woken up a _little_ slow. Then, he’d taken away the book Harry was reading at night because he didn’t like him reading in the dark, but it hadn’t even been that dark: the attic had no lights, but nights were bright in Inari, and the dim glow of the skies was still an improvement on what Harry had managed with in his cupboard back at the Dursleys. And worst of all, instead of learning anything useful, Snape wanted Harry to spend his valuable time with Leeni taking nature walks and talking to flowers. That wasn’t even an exaggeration: he’d actually _said that._

The house was silent when they returned from the forest. Kauko usually played the radio, signal pattering grain because she hated the local stations. She must have gone out. Leeni liked to ignore Harry’s existence out of lessons, so he let her be and climbed up the stairway to Snape’s room. The instinct annoyed him: he was tired of Snape these days and he _didn’t_ want to see him.

The door stood inched open. Harry pushed it gently with his foot to make it seem like maybe the wind had done it, only to find the room empty.

The springs whined when he dropped himself on the bed. They’d shared rooms before, but they’d been in Inari a week now and Snape had made this one distinctly his own: a shirt was hung off the back of a chair, a book Leeni had lent him sat earmarked with a wisp of pine, a newspaper lay dropped onto the seating chair by the side of the bed—so it felt more dangerous to mess around here in Snape’s absence, and plenty more exhilarating.

He nosed around the book first. It was on natural magic and seemed like it would have been interesting, but the language was rich and uncommon, and he tired of it quickly. He picked up the newspaper next. On the back, Snape had sketched lake Inari, likely as he was sitting out on the porch with his morning coffee. It was pretty.

Then, Harry realised _which_ newspaper he was holding, and nearly dropped it.

But this wasn’t the issue of the Daily Prophet that he’d read on the train to Warsaw. This one was new, with a different advertisement banner on the front page—ice-cream, not summer fashion—and when he found the date, he recognised it had only been issued two days ago.

He glanced at the door. He would hear it if anyone started up the stairs. Not that he was doing anything wrong: Snape had forbidden him reading _that other_ issue of the Prophet, not this one, and anyway, he didn’t see why he should care—he deserved to know what was going on with his own life, didn’t he?

Here, news of Harry had been relegated to the second page. Apparently, the editor thought a wizards’ duel between Auror partners Quentin Lamotte and Nnene Adeyemi was better front-page material than a custody trial, and Harry had to agree. He considered reading about that first, but Dumbledore’s photograph peered out at him from page two, and once he glimpsed his name in the testimony below, he forgot all about duels.

_‘I will not betray Harry’s location, and considering the Ministry’s recent actions, I cannot imagine that the jury would fault me this caution. However, I can admit I have seen him very recently. I cannot report back on his magical abilities or plans on how best to use those for combat, though I am sure that is what many would like to hear. But we did not speak of it. We spoke of the places Harry has visited on his holiday, of the cat he has befriended, of him missing home and his friends. Whatever extraordinary talents he might have been born with, Harry Potter is a child—and this is a fact that the Ministry seems to have forgotten. They have sent Aurors after him as if after a criminal—Aurors who, without good cause, have attacked and injured an eleven-year-old in front of dozens of muggle witnesses in an allied nation. I have no doubt that should they gain custody, the Ministry would carefully consider where to place Harry. I only worry it will be the best interest of Harry, the Boy Who Lived, that they will seek, not the best interest of Harry, the child. And that is a measure of cynicism I cannot abide.’_

Harry blinked, readjusting his grip on the paper. He thought he understood Dumbledore’s angle here; only, half of what he was saying wasn’t even the truth. They hadn’t talked about cats or places Harry had been, and since Dumbledore had spoken with Snape, he must have known by now that Harry had no reason to miss home. They’d talked plenty about his magic, too.

As his eyes fell on another paragraph, breath stuck in his chest.

_In response to allegations against Potter’s muggle relatives, Dumbledore said, ‘I understand and empathise with these concerns and I can assure you that after reading Miss Skeeter’s report, I investigated each claim and found little substance to the implications. I wished for Harry a childhood where his choices of play, of friends and of daily activities could exist separate from the stigma of his traumatic past. His muggle family could provide that. The blood wards on the house [see: A.D.’s deposition, Prophet issue of July 18 th] keep Harry safe and will stand strong for as long as he belongs with his family: I believe that he does. Adjustments may need to be made as the boy matures and grows in his power, but I refuse to sever Harry’s relationship with his relatives as the Ministry would have liked to do.’_

_Dumbledore will present witnesses to testify on Potter’s family environment on Wednesday._

Harry set the paper back on the armchair. He stood. He straightened the duvet and the sheets. He shut the door behind him.

He ran down the stairs, and out of the house, and then kept running.

There was a thrumming noise in his ears. His heart fumbled in his chest, fallen out of rhythm. He pressed a palm there, as if he could calm it through skin and bone; is this what it felt like to be having a heart attack? You were supposed to cough when you were having a heart attack, Aunt Petunia had read it in the paper once and told Uncle Vernon over breakfast. He coughed once, then again, but now he couldn’t stop, throat raw and chest tender, until his stomach seized and he threw up into a bush.

He wiped his mouth with a sleeve. It came away trailing threads of milky saliva and stomach slime. He felt so disgusted with himself he wanted to cry. He didn’t.

The run tired him, so now he only walked. The forest had thickened. He wanted to make sure he went far enough that if he looked behind his shoulder, he couldn’t so much as glimpse the house.

He’d started to believe it, he realised. Not in any one moment, but gradually, half-aware. He’d started to seriously believe that he wouldn’t have to go back, that Snape had believed him and told Dumbledore as promised. Even the fantasy of this new family he might go to flickered on the side-lines of his mind, still too risky to indulge in but a wisp of promise, _possibility._ And now, he knew the truth.

Had Snape been lying about telling Dumbledore? Had he only said that so Harry would feel better and whinge less? Or had he wanted to tell him at first, but then changed his mind when Harry didn’t mention anything else Aunt Petunia had done that was bad, and acted normal and healthy and fine—had he realised it wasn’t such a big deal after all, and hadn’t wanted to bother Dumbledore about it?

Or had he really told, and Dumbledore was the one who didn’t believe it? Maybe Harry should have spoken with him, too, maybe he should have been less of a coward and explained— No. Snape had as good as promised; he’d lied. All this time, he’d been walking around, pretending to be nice to Harry and pretending to care about whether he had enough light to read with, while knowing full well Dumbledore was going to send him back to the Dursleys.

He dropped to the ground at the foot of a tall silver birch. The roots dug into his thighs; his trainers were caked with mud. There was a speck of vomit on the left toe. He always ended up here, didn’t he? _Unhygienic._

What if Snape was right? Harry had let himself get lost in the fantasy, boosted by Snape’s momentary outrage—but bad things happened to children all the time. No one’s parents were perfect: some were too strict, or not empathetic enough, or didn’t know better or lost control or had other things going on in their lives. The Dursleys weren’t great, but neither did they seriously hurt Harry. He’d heard of kids who’d been burnt, beaten, raped and choked and _murdered_. They were on the TV news all the time. That was real abuse. Harry’s uncle had only hit him twice, and both times it hadn’t been hard enough to properly bruise; and he’d been extra nice after, so it sort of balanced itself out.

He sat still until his shivers eased, then picked up again, then disappeared. Was he missing dinner, or was the gorge in his stomach just sadness? He didn’t know—he didn’t care—he wanted to stay in the forest forever.

Soon, voices were cutting through the trees, calling out his name. He didn’t move, but he didn’t hide. They would find him eventually.

Leeni stumbled upon him first. Her face was blank, her lips pinched over her teeth.

‘You’re okay?’ she asked. Harry nodded.

He was sure she was going to yell. He could normally tell when it was coming, because people’s jaws tightened and something changed in their eyes. But Leeni didn’t yell. She didn’t do anything at all, except send a flutter of red sparks out of her wand and into the sky, and offer her hand to help Harry to his feet.

She didn’t touch him again as they walked back to the house, but she hovered a step closer than usual, quiet and unassuming. For once, Harry found it comforting.

On the porch, she sat in the rocking chair, eyes fixed on the forest. Harry idled by her side, wondering if he should apologise for causing her trouble.

A few minutes later, Snape and Kauko emerged from the treeline. Leeni gave them a little wave, which Kauko returned and Snape did not acknowledge. His jaw was tight and his eyes bulging. He was going to yell.

‘What in _Merlin’s name_ were you thinking?’

‘You wanted to go to the sauna tonight,’ Leeni said to Kauko.

‘Oh, right. Yes, shall we go? You guys can join us later if you like?’

Leeni pulled her into the house before she had the time to push for an answer.

Snape waited until the door closed after them, then rounded on Harry. ‘What idiotic idea took hold of you, to go wandering around the forest on you own? That forest stretches for miles and miles, you stupid child—what if we hadn’t found you?’

‘I wasn’t lost,’ Harry said under his breath.

‘Excuse me?’

‘I,’ Harry looked up to meet his eye. ‘Wasn’t. Lost. I was just sick of looking at your face, is that a crime?’

Blood thundered in his ears. Snape was staring at him in silence, and that was so much worse than if he’d yelled—

‘I’m going to the sauna with Leeni and Kauko,’ he announced shakily. If he stayed in Snape’s company a moment longer, he knew he was going to start crying, and he never, _ever_ wanted to cry in front of him again.

‘I am not done with you, Potter—’

Harry ran. The door banged shut behind him: he hoped it struck Snape right in the face.

He didn’t really want to go the sauna. Kauko had brought him once before and he’d thought it was fairly boring. But he didn’t suppose Snape was going to come to the sauna just to yell at him.

He climbed up the stairs into the bathroom, where he snatched the swimming trunks Leeni had transfigured for him. He felt eyes on the back of his head, yet every time he turned, he saw only empty rooms: Snape hadn’t given chase.

The sauna sat to the back of the house, the steam room abutted on an extra bathroom with only a shower built right into the wall, and room enough for a mop and bucket. Harry undressed, set his glasses on the sill and wet his face. He could hear Kauko’s laughter through the shut door.

In the steam room, the floor hissed under his bare feet. At the first touch, the wooden bench felt too hot to hold him, but he’d found last time this was an illusion, and resolutely climbed higher, onto the topmost berth where the air was thickest. Every breath burnt his nostrils as it went down.

He didn’t say anything to Leeni or Kauko, prostrated just below him. He still felt their glances, at him, at each other. When Leeni rose, he stiffened, but she was only going to tip more water on the hot stones in the corner. With a hiss, they expunged a plume of steam that caught and pulled at Harry’s lungs. Deep in his stomach, he was still fiercely cold and that couldn’t be helped, but his every joint, his shoulders and his knees and his spine, they were all molten with a warmth he’d not felt even in the strongest of suns.

He drifted on the feeling until the door opened again. It was Snape, with a pulled face and an awkward gait. For a moment, Harry was too shocked at the oddness of seeing a teacher in nothing but his swimming trunks to remember his anger—but it flooded back alright.

‘Water,’ Leeni pointed at the stones.

Snape poured some more, then climbed up the benches until he was just under Harry: since Harry was lying flat on his back, Snape’s head now hovered level with his face. He closed his eyes.

Snape was silent. He remained so through two intervals, as they walked back into the bathroom and took turns to stand under the cold spray of the shower. The only sounds were the flapping of their feet on the floor, and the seething of the rising steam.

‘Thank you,’ Leeni said at last, standing up with an air of finality.

‘We go swimming in the lake to finish,’ Kauko told them as she rose in turn. ‘You should come and try it when you’re done.’

Harry pretended not to hear her.

When the door closed behind them, Snape got up to add steam. The stones were so hot, they blistered with a low glow. Harry wondered what it would be like to touch them.

‘Can you explain to me why you went into the forest?’

Harry shrugged. It was getting difficult to breathe but moving a level or two down would mean coming closer to Snape.

‘Are you _aware_ you’re not allowed to go into the forest alone?’

Harry shrugged again. He’d not been thinking about that then, and he didn’t much care now.

Snape sighed. ‘You’re being impossible. I have no desire to row with you, I am seeking an explanation.’

‘You lied to me,’ Harry said, without at all meaning to.

Snape was silent for a moment. ‘I lied?’ he finally repeated. ‘When?’

‘When you said—about the Dursleys,’ Harry swung his legs down the berth to better stare at the man. ‘You said I wouldn’t go back and that you’d tell Professor Dumbledore to find somewhere else for me, but you were lying. I saw what he said about it in his deposition. And that was two days ago, maybe three. You were supposed to tell him and you didn’t.’

‘I did _not_ lie,’ Snape seethed. ‘And if you held the same respect for basic trust, Potter, you would not be accusing me of such, because you wouldn’t have dared search my room in my absence, and you’d never have read that paper. I also distinctly remember forbidding you from—'

‘You told me I couldn’t read the one on the train, you didn’t say anything about future issues. Or am I not allowed to read the Daily Prophet for the rest of my life?’

‘That sounds like a good rule,’ Snape snapped. ‘You certainly lack now the critical reading skills to comprehend that not everything featured in the paper should be taken as fact. It was pretence, Potter. The Headmaster can’t very well tell the Ministry he’d placed you with abusive guardians if he hopes to keep custody. And you may not fully understand yet the symbolic power of what you represent to the wizarding world, but trust me, it is not in your best interest that he airs your trauma as fodder for the Prophet gossip mill.’

‘I don’t believe you!’ Harry stumbled down until his feet were ground level again and the door in easy reach. ‘You’re just lying to me again, I don’t believe anything you say—’

‘I am not lying to you, Potter, for heaven’s sake! I don’t know what infantile fantasy this is, but you will snap out of it and listen to what I am telling you!’

He reached for Harry’s shoulder. Harry took a step back, shaking his head like he was trying to shoo away a persistent fly. His brain was a buzz.

‘No, don’t touch me,’ he asked. He couldn’t be here anymore, he couldn’t do this—he turned and he made to run, but before he took more than a single stride, something caught on his arm—

‘You do _not_ run away from me!’

Snape’s fingers tightened painfully on Harry’s elbow. Harry couldn’t run. Even if kicked and flailed, Snape was stronger and Harry was trapped.

His toes tingled, then his ankles. Without thinking, he reached for the wind, for the cloudberry taste, and he imagined it, _push_ , like he had dozens of times before, only now, it wasn’t himself he was pushing at.

Snape was flung backwards like a puppet wrenched by its strings. He flew across the room and met the wall with a sickening crunch—the wood cracked—he slid to the floor, eyes shut so loosely that you could still see the whites. His arms and legs were thrown to the sides like rags, lifeless and unthreatening.

Harry dropped to his knees by his side. His hands shook, his legs couldn’t support him—his stomach was shaking so bad he’d have sicked up again I he had anything left to give.

‘Professor?’ he whispered, like maybe if he spoke softly enough, Snape might not hear, and then that would be why he wasn’t answering.

He should call for help. He should find Leeni, or he should move Snape’s head to check if he was bleeding. But if he saw a cracked skull? If Leeni came and said—he knew what he was afraid of, he understood it perfectly and yet he couldn’t put words to it, he couldn’t do anything that might prove or disprove or counteract, because that might make it real.

His skin burned. Tears mingled with sweat, so there was no way of knowing how badly he was crying. He couldn’t breathe.

Snape’s shoulder jerked. His leg followed. He blinked blearily, face spasming in pain, and then felt at the back of his head. His fingers came away bloody.

He stared at Harry, eyes wide, hand still in the air. Harry stared right back even though he hated it, frozen, gaping, the wooden boards digging into his knees.

This couldn’t be real, he thought, over and over: please let this not be real.

Snape grabbed him by the chin. ‘Look at me,’ he ordered, but Harry was already looking. The blood from his fingers itched on Harry’s face. ‘Oh, damn it,’ he drew away, wiped the fingers best he could on his chest, where rivulets of sweat now ran pink-tinged, then grabbed at Harry again. It wasn’t real. ‘Look at me, Harry. It’s alright. I’m fine.’

‘No—’

‘Yes. I can move, I can see, I can talk. There’s a cut on the back of my head, but Leeni can close it. Listen to me. I might have a mild concussion. All that means is I’ll have to take it easy for a day or two—that won’t be much of a difference from the usual routine we follow around here, will it?’

Harry fisted his hands. This was all so wrong. ‘I could have—I could have—I hurt you. They’re right, I’m dangerous, I can’t—I’m sorry—’

Snape was clambering up to stand, his legs like splinters, precarious on the wet floor. ‘Get up. Get up, you’re overheated. If we stay here, one of us is bound to pass out.’

He dragged Harry to the shower room, then lowered them both to the cold tile and turned the tap on. Water cascaded onto Harry’s head. He remembered standing in the shower in Tallinn, laughing. Now, even the memory of it was ruined.

Snape took him under the arms and slid him back until Harry was leaning against the wall. The tiles were fresh glory on the nape of his neck.

‘You’ve done nothing wrong,’ Snape told him. He was catching the water in his hands and running it over his face, then rubbing it into Harry’s cheeks, over and over until they felt numb. ‘Do you understand?’

‘No, I hurt you—’

‘Good. You should have hurt me.’

Harry tried to shake his head, but it was hard with Snape’s hands in the way.

‘Yes,’ Snape insisted. ‘If an adult grabs you like that when you’re trying to get away, you should absolutely be using your magic to push them away, do you understand? You should at the very least ensure they’re concussed.’

‘I didn’t mean to,’ Harry sobbed. He could now tell the tears apart: they were a stark warmth against the freezing spray of water.

‘No, you acted on instinct. And it was very good instinct. Well done.’

Harry laughed, though he wasn’t at all happy. ‘You can’t say well done when I’ve just given you—c-concussion.’

‘Sometimes, you have to hurt someone to protect yourself: haven’t we agreed on that?’

Harry angled his head up and opened his mouth, so the water ran straight down his throat. He choked once and some of it came out through his nose, but he drank greedily through it.

‘But you weren’t going to hurt me,’ he said quietly once he was done. ‘You only wanted to stop me leaving.’

He didn’t look at Snape. He measured his silence.

‘That’s true,’ Snape said finally. ‘But I still shouldn’t have grabbed you. Do you not normally hold with the view that your size does not give me the right to pick you up and put you where I please?’

‘Yeah,’ it was getting difficult to talk through the build-up of snot in his nose. It was running down into Harry’s mouth now, salty and slimy. ‘But you never listen to me. Uhm, I think I need to go find a tissue.’

Snape chuckled. ‘Just blow into your hand and wash it off—heaven knows we’re already swimming in bodily fluids.’

Harry was about to complain how disgusting that was, but saw then the trail of watery blood that flowed steadily down Snape’s back. Fresh tears came up to his eyes.

‘I’m sorry,’ he gasped. ‘I’m really sorry—’

‘I’ve told you there is nothing to be sorry about. Were you listening?’

Harry nodded meekly. After what he’d just done, he was never going to disagree with Snape again, not ever.

They held themselves against the wall as they stumbled up to stand, feet slipping and catching on the tile. Snape patted Harry dry with his towel, then brushed it over his own skin. Harry had put his glasses back on, so the stain of fresh blood on the fabric seeped clear and sharp, clenching on his heart like a metal vise.

They staggered out to the porch, where Snape fell into the rocking chair. He pretended like he wasn’t falling, only sitting down quite controllably, but Harry wasn’t fooled.

‘Go fetch Leeni,’ he directed. He was working hard on not wheezing through the words.

Harry ran across the lawn toward the darkened shape of the lake. The grass was a shiver of cold on his bare feet. A chill hung in the air, but it buffeted against his heated skin and then rode away like a wave crushed on the shore.

He saw their silhouettes, flittering there and back in the sparkling glow of the low moon. He waved, suddenly awkward: everyone only ever called Leeni by her first name and he did the same in his mind, but it seemed disrespectful to holler it. Fortunately, she’d seen him.

She pulled herself up on the landing, pushed the wet hair out of her face, and examined Harry’s distress, completely impassive.

‘Professor Snape needs your help,’ Harry said.

She nodded and went with him.

Moths darted around the orange bollard set into the steps of the porch. As Leeni spelled the wound on his head clean and closed, Harry stood as close to Snape as possible without actually touching him.

‘Bring him a glass of water,’ Leeni told him. She could have easily summoned the water with magic, which meant she was getting rid of him to speak with Snape unencumbered. Harry didn’t mind. The last thing he wanted was to hear again the facts of what he’d done, or to see Leeni’s face when she learned them.

He sloshed some of the water onto his wrist and the floor, which was how he realised he was still shaking.

When he got back, Snape and Leeni were quiet. Snape drank his water awkwardly, angling back only the glass and never his neck. A blush of shame crept onto Harry’s nape, and then his cheeks and forehead and the tip of his head. He didn’t look at Leeni.

‘I’m going to go and swim some more,’ he heard her saying.

‘I don’t suppose either of us is up to much swimming,’ Snape was answering. ‘We might go sit on the landing for a while and watch. Would you like that?’

Harry didn’t know what he wanted, besides to erase this whole night and possibly have both of them forget he existed. But Snape sounded like maybe _he_ wanted it, and Harry had no leg to stand on to refuse him now, did he?

‘Okay,’ he muttered. He couldn’t see it, but he felt like they were exchanging glances over his head. It would have made him angry if he could figure out how to feel much of anything.

He was about to follow Snape down the porch steps when Leeni stepped in his way.

‘Are you okay staying alone with him?’ she asked. At first, Harry wasn’t sure who she’d meant.

‘Oh, uhm, yeah. Of course.’

She eyed him warily for a beat. Then, she nodded and let him pass.

They sat on the landing. Harry’s feet just about breached the surface of the lake, the water a pleasant chill on his ankles. The sky was luminous with that Inari light that never seemed to go off, but it still felt like putting his feet into nothing, into pure darkness, into a gorge in the earth filled with shadows.

Leeni lingered above them, face hidden behind grey. She was thinking.

‘Push me in the water,’ she said suddenly.

‘Push—push you?’

‘Yes. Like you pushed him,’ she waved a hand at Snape, ‘with natural magic. Do it to me but do it gently. On purpose.’

Harry was shaking his head already. He never wanted to do that again.

‘You had a bad experience,’ Leeni said, unperturbed. ‘You need to overwrite it.’

Harry looked up to Snape for help but saw immediately that he wasn’t going to get any.

‘If you push too hard,’ Snape said, ‘it won’t matter. She’s still only falling into the water.’

They waited. A minute passed, then another. He sniffled but found no sympathy. With each passing second, he felt sicker and sicker, but they weren’t giving up, which meant he would be stuck here forever unless he gave them what they wanted.

With a shaky breath, he lay his palms flat on the wooden platform. He curled his toes in the water, letting the tingle climb up his ankles and thighs, all the way into his chest. A calm filled him, just for a moment, and then he imagined Leeni tipping backward into the water as if she were simply losing her balance.

Then, he heard a splash.

Leeni’s head broke surface again, just a few feet away from the landing. He’d been gentle.

‘Good,’ she said, and smiled at him for the first time ever.

Snape had brought a blanket from the porch, and threw it now around them both. At this hour, Harry normally pulled on his wool jumper and warmest socks, but now he was half-naked and perfectly warm, like the sauna had lit a furnace in his chest.

‘What happened to your stomach?’

‘Huh?’

‘I noticed earlier you have a bruise. It’s mostly faded now.’

He couldn’t muster up the energy to lie. He shrugged and said nothing.

‘We’ll get you some bruise-healing balm when we get back inside.’

‘It doesn’t even hurt anymore.’

‘Alright.’

Harry kicked a little at the water, sending a tiny wave into the night.

‘The deposition,’ Snape said. ‘The Headmaster is very much aware that your relatives have been poor guardians. But he doesn’t want it to become public knowledge. That means you are fine talking about it with your friends, but we are going to have to pretend in front of the Ministry and the Prophet. Do you understand?’

Harry nodded. He didn’t really want to talk about this anymore.

‘Look,’ Snape drew in a sharp breath. ‘You are not required to like or even understand it. But whether you want to or not, you are part of this war. And this is a war that was waged before you were born and will likely be waged again at some point in the future. Hopefully, you’ll be an adult by then and capable of making your own choices about how much you wish to be involved, and how to execute that involvement—but because of what happened to you, because the Dark Lord tried and failed to kill you, you cannot completely escape it. And your life now will be shaped by this. And you will need to do or say certain things you might not have cared to do or say otherwise.’

He ran a hand over his forearm, where the tattoo was. Harry didn’t think he was even aware of doing it.

‘So, if there’s going to be another war,’ Harry said, ‘someday, if Voldemort returns, then you’ll go back to being a spy? You’ll pretend to work for him again?’

Snape gave a sharp nod.

‘Do you have to?’ Harry asked.

Snape snorted. ‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘I—I have made choices in my past that have—predetermined my future. Like you, that is not something I can escape.’

‘But you’re an adult,’ Harry pointed out. ‘No, I mean, you said that by the time the war comes back, I might be an adult and I’ll be able to decide myself if I want to fight or how I want to fight or whatever. You’re saying I’ll be a part of it anyway, but I’ll get to choose, too. So why can’t you choose?’

‘You have done nothing to deserve what happened to you,’ Snape said firmly. ‘I chose to become a Death Eater. I did some truly horrible things. I owe it now to make amends.’

Harry didn’t quite understand who it was that Snape owed this to. But he understood wanting to do good deeds to make up for the things you’d done wrong.

‘Do you really think that he’s going to come back? That there’ll be another war?’

Snape mused on this. ‘Yes,’ he decided finally. ‘I know he will not give up, and so eventually, he will find a way to grow into power again. And then, there will be a war. But there is no way of knowing when that will happen.’

It was odd to Harry to try and imagine: this looming thing, this threat that shaped his life even though he didn’t understand it. What was war like? He’d seen movies about it; he knew his parents fought and died in one. But wars could go on for years. How did people _live_ through them? Until he understood it, Harry didn’t think he could fear this future war; it sounded to his ears like a story, borrowing characters from reality but otherwise purely fantastical.

Maybe he could ask Snape about it one day, what the last war had been like. He had spoken with Harry just now with plenty openness, so he might not even mind as much.

It made him feel doubly horrible: not only had Snape forgiven Harry for hurting him, he was now being honest and trusting him with his musings, and Harry had done nothing except lie. Snape had no idea Harry had known Agata was a witch. If he knew Harry had gone out onto that field in Zakopane, and got himself bit by that adder, and ensured Snape wasn’t ready for it when Agata attacked him, and stolen his wand—and lied about it all—he wouldn’t be as willing to volunteer this confidence.

He fought desperately not to think about it: he was in that mood that sometimes followed crying when the smallest thing could set him off again. But the guilt pushed through and tears sprung to his eyes again, stinging at the corners and the skin already run raw.

‘What’s wrong?’ Snape asked him.

Harry was sure he was going to drive him to madness with all the shrugging he was doing tonight, so he said instead, ‘Nothing,’ which was even stupider, since it was very obvious he was crying.

Snape didn’t call him out on it. Tentatively, he put his arm around Harry’s shoulders.

Harry’s face pressed into Snape’s chest. He felt the lingering warmth and scent of the steam, and the way Snape’s collarbone shifted when he pulled the blanket tighter around them. The cocoon of it hid Harry from the night. It was dark and humid inside, and just like in the steam room, the air was thick and scant and difficult to get through the lungs; but like the steam room, it made every bone in Harry’s body lit up warm.

Somehow, even that persistent cold in his stomach, the one that would never budge—even that began to thaw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, that was a lot! I hope you've enjoyed this chapter :)
> 
> Has anyone noticed how long we've gone without Severus torturing himself with memories of a long-dead woman? No? Well, we'll be getting some of those again on Wednesday. See you then.


	22. Twenty-One: Inari (III)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _‘I’ve promised him,’ he said softly. ‘I’ve promised him he will never go back.’_
> 
> _Albus looked at him now. His eyes were steel. ‘That was not your promise to make.’_

**Twenty-One: Inari (III)**

Time slipped around Severus. Through the open door to the house came the ticking of the hallway clock: too slow, then too fast. He touched a hand to his ribs, as if that might keep his heart steady.

‘You can’t be serious,’ he said. Albus rocked back on the chair. He did not look at him.

‘I am still working on the ideal duration,’ he spoke as if Severus hadn’t interrupted. ‘My hope is that two, perhaps three weeks a summer will be enough to maintain the wards. As long as Harry considers it his home and as long as his aunt continues to maintain it as such. As long as he has some of his possessions there. Otherwise, I know that Molly and Arthur Weasley are keen to have him visit. I am confident I can plead my case and have them keep Harry for longer than they normally would.’

Severus leaned against the wooden post that held up the porch roof. It creaked with his weight. Leeni and Kauko had taken the boy on a stroll. Thank Merlin no one was here to witness this humiliation: Severus was about to beg. Only Dumbledore could bring him to this, he thought. And Lily, of course, once upon a time.

‘I’ve promised him,’ he said softly. ‘I’ve promised him he will never go back.’

Albus looked at him now. His eyes were steel. ‘That was not your promise to make.’

For a moment, Severus thought he wouldn’t be able to draw in his next breath.

‘I told him you were lying through your teeth during that deposition,’ he said bitterly. ‘I thought I was telling the truth, too.’

‘You couldn’t have been sure if you thought to ask me about it.’

Anger boiled hard and fast in Severus’s stomach, until bile rose to his throat and he had to swallow through the sting of acid. ‘After what I’ve told you about how they’ve treated him, how can you even—’

‘Are they physically abusive? Do they beat him?’

The bluntness of it cut through Severus’s focus. He stumbled, ‘I—I don’t know, I don’t think so, but—’

‘Do they deprive of him food? Or is it primarily verbal abuse?’

‘What is this, an interrogation?’

‘If you wish to help, Severus, find out exactly what is going on. I have no use for sweeping statements and I have no use for meddling in what is now past. Specifics, I can address. I can speak with them, I can reason, I can threaten. I can provide targeted aid so that the time Harry does spend at Privet Drive is as comfortable for him as it can be.’

‘Comfortable?’ Severus choked. ‘He’s eleven, he needs—he needs more than bloody _comfortable!_ None of your targeted aid is going to change the fact that they don’t love the boy!’

‘No,’ Albus agreed. ‘But that is not an issue I am able to fix.’

Severus’s throat spasmed around a scream. He remembered that dream, now: he saw it in his mind, beating Albus to death with his own fists, squeezing the life out of him, blood gushing through every orifice, eye whites bursting and dripping down his wrists—

He was opening his mouth.

‘No,’ Albus’s voice cut. Severus hunched on instinct, some old conditioning kicking back in. ‘Don’t you _dare_ imply I am happy about this, that I do not _care_. I wish things were different for Harry. I wish Lily and James hadn’t been murdered. I wish his godfather hadn’t betrayed them, I wish his grandparents had lived, I wish his aunt and uncle were good, caring people. I wish the prophecy had spoken about someone else, someone older—I wish it had spoken of me, I wish I were the only one shouldering this burden, I wish I didn’t _need_ to share it.’

His eyes glimmered, fierce and angry. Severus couldn’t make himself look away.

‘I’ve been tasked with keeping the boy alive and best able to face the challenges ahead,’ he declared. It sounded like a vow. ‘And that is what I will provide. Do _not_ presume this is easy for me, Severus.’

‘No,’ Severus rasped, blinking back the hot threat of tears. ‘I know it’s not easy.’

They were coming back now, swinging their baskets, jubilant voices riding the afternoon breeze. Severus turned away, toward the wall of the house, and squeezed his eyes as hard as he could bear it, until the feeling wrapped itself up into the tiniest parcel that he could ship off somewhere deep and dark, where all of his other failures lay.

He blinked, summoned a neutral expression, and spun on his heel just as Harry climbed the porch steps, head inclined as he murmured his hello’s to Albus. Kauko’s eyes cut to his: too empathetic for her own good. She flung her basket until it smacked against the table, and the flowers they’d gathered revealed themselves in palettes of colour and fresh, flush scent.

‘A beautiful selection,’ Albus was saying, his smile an artifice no one but Severus would catch.

‘Leeni was teaching us about magical properties,’ Kauko announced proudly. ‘The mint, that protects against trolls—ten years I’ve known her, and I’ve never known you had real trolls. Harry had to enlighten me.’

‘I would say you should put some in your pocket, Harry, but you seem to have done perfectly well without so far,’ Albus winked, which delighted the boy though he worked not to show it. The whole thing was sending shivers up Severus’s spine. Kauko was still noticing, eyes wary and curious. Leeni would remain oblivious until they’d had the time to gossip about him after, but Potter would pick up on it soon. He needed an out, only they were all merrily situated between him and the door.

It hadn’t been his promise to make. None of this had much to do with him at all; he felt alien, suddenly, dabbling helplessly in something he couldn’t hope to understand and making a right mess of it.

‘Marsh marigold,’ Harry frowned in concentration as he pointed with his finger. ‘If you put that under your pillow at night, it will make you dream of old love. And then fern leaves will make you dream about the future. And that’s Lily of the Valley. It’s sort of like a protection spell.’

‘Harry wanted to bring you one,’ Kauko whispered, though of course they were all standing so close that everyone could hear her. ‘But they’re poisonous.’

Harry had coloured slightly but fought through it. ‘Leeni said violets are better. They’re protective too, but they’re not poisonous.’

‘I don’t want you accidentally tipping anything into a drink,’ Leeni confirmed in a bored tone. ‘If you two want to carry flowers on you, carry violets.’

Harry picked one out from the basket and gave it to Severus. He’d known of the protective qualities of violets, of course; they were used in several potions. Normally, he’d have tried to turn this into a teaching moment, but it felt wrong now, like it wasn’t his place, like he suddenly lacked the confidence for it. The boy would get annoyed, that was a given, and the others would range from second-hand embarrassment to amusement. Right now, he could deal with none of it.

‘May I pick one?’ Albus inquired politely. At Leeni’s stiff nod, he selected one of the fern leaves, which he then extended to Severus. ‘My gift to you. May you dream of the future tonight, Severus.’

Severus took it. Part of him wanted to throw it back in his face. Part of him wanted to place it under his pillow and hope to dream of a life in which he could stop disappointing him.

He lingered on the porch as they filed into the house. The fern leaf and the violet weighed more in his hand than was physically possible.

‘I got you the lily as well.’

Distracted, he peered down at the boy. From his pocket, he’d produced two green stalks, each holding three flowers, small and white like milk teeth. A little crumpled, they lay on Harry’s palm, glistening with sweat.

‘I figure it’s better protection if it’s meaningful to you,’ he explained. ‘That’s how natural magic works, sort of, and since flowers grow from the earth and the earth around here has a lot of magic, I think that should work, shouldn’t it? I know Leeni’s said they’re poisonous and I shouldn’t take any, but sometimes you have to hurt someone to protect yourself, right?’

He grinned at his little joke. Severus tried for a smile.

‘Uhm, you can pick one. The other one’s for me. I mean, if you want.’

He did want. He took the one a little more mangled by the boy’s handling and closed his fist around it in acknowledgment. Harry smiled and did the same with the other flower, like this was their little secret. Like Severus had any business playing around in someone else’s sandpit.

That night, he did not go upstairs when he was supposed to.

The firelit room, the moonlight that poured through the windows foolishly thrown open like arms welcoming the chill, the clinking of mugs: this was their hosts’ domain, a pocket of privacy in the upheaval of routine. They were used to their solitude; every night their voices, intimate and careless, floated up the stairway and slithered into Severus’s room as he read. They were owed these moments of peace. Only tonight, Severus couldn’t bear the thought of being alone.

Leeni had sprawled on the sofa in anticipation of his leave, uncharacteristically lax. He kept his eyes on the fire, too displeased with this weakness to put it into words.

Kauko realised first. Something in her face flipped, and then she was grinning, throwing Leeni’s feet off her lap, bustling across the room.

‘Tonight is the night,’ she said mysteriously as she pried open the glass cabinet in the corner. Severus snatched a glimpse of a bottle of dark liquor and three shot glasses. ‘We usually save up the drinking for the winter, but this is a special occasion.’

‘Is it?’ Leeni asked genuinely before Severus could utter the same, only laced with sarcasm.

‘Tonight, Severus is telling us his tragic story.’

‘Am I now?’

‘Notice,’ Kauko poured Leeni’s drink and pressed it into her hand without looking, ‘he’s not arguing he doesn’t have a tragic story, only that he won’t tell us.’

‘But he will,’ Leeni said with perfect conviction.

‘Oh, he will,’ she hovered Severus’s drink inches from his face. ‘The moment he accepts the drink, he’s doomed to tell.’

He glared at her for a beat. Then, without breaking eye contact, he took the drink.

He downed it in one, the liquor a sweet burn that cloyed in his throat. Leeni gave a hoot with the completely wrong cadence, like a poor actress. Kauko topped him off, the corner of her mouth twitching.

‘The boy’s parents,’ he said then. ‘Despised him, loved her.’

‘Cliché,’ Leeni nodded. ‘I like it.’

Kauko snorted.

He pulled up his shirtsleeve, to remind them of what they’d already known. ‘She was a muggleborn. I provided the Dark Lord with information that eventually resulted in her murder. His, too. Tried to take it back. Didn’t work.’

‘Less cliché,’ Leeni praised.

‘You were in love with her and you still served?’ Kauko frowned. ‘What sort of logic is that?’

‘The two were not interconnected,’ Severus said bitterly. ‘Until we’d argued one time too many, and then they were.’

‘Dark.’

‘How old were you when she died?’ Kauko asked.

‘Twenty-one.’

She whistled. ‘A baby. I’m sorry.’

He nodded, throat tight. He had been that, hadn’t he? _She_ had been that. She’d never got a chance to grow up properly. And he’d had to do it without her.

He hadn’t thought of her for a while, not _properly_. Dipping back in now was a shock to the heart, the emotion sudden and undiluted: like seeing her again after a sick day, after a weekend away, after a prolonged argument.

The longest he’d gone without her before that horrid Halloween had been two years. He’d known he still loved her, of course: it had informed his choices, it had sent him to his knees to beg Albus for aid, it had kept him going through those awful months of Occlumency training and the Dark Lord’s growing insanity. But when he finally stepped into his first Order meeting, too skinny and withered with pain and crusted fear, and when he saw her there—he realised he’d entirely forgotten _how much_.

This was a memory he rarely revisited. It had never brought him any comfort at all. But the alcohol had dulled the edges of it, and he suddenly wanted to ache.

They’d sat on opposite sides of the long table. Albus spoke first; Severus was terrified of him back then, so he tried to listen. Someone else spoke. A debate ensued. Severus heard none of it. Her hair was longer. The mole beneath her left ear. The twitch of her eyebrow. Her teeth. The line of her neck. She spoke, now, ‘Yes, I agree,’ she’d said, and Severus was nodding along, no idea what it was they were agreeing with.

She glanced at him, like she’d been avoiding from the moment he’d sat down, and her eyes—they both smiled helplessly at one another, her lip flayed from the endless biting, the carpal bone jutting out of her wrist, she rested her chin on her hand, something dark and despairing in her eyes now—and she was swallowing laugher, looking away, then back, unable, and so they stared at each other throughout the meeting: amused, melancholic, frustrated, eager. The two years had changed everything and meant nothing.

He lingered by the door when they were done, heart beating wildly against his ribs. He couldn’t let her escape.

She didn’t try, though her step was tentative.

‘Hello there,’ her head was angled to the side. The tip of her head; the brush of hair against her shoulder. Her ear.

‘Hello,’ he echoed helplessly.

‘You look like one of those African children on a leaflet about world hunger.’

‘Yes.’

Every time she met his eye, it felt like some missing scab of tissue was slotting into his lungs; like all this time, he’d been only pretending to breathe.

She laughed. This was painful and Severus was making it worse.

‘I can’t talk about that,’ she said, offering no context. He didn’t need it. ‘I can’t—or I can’t talk at all.’

‘How are you?’ he asked instead, desperate to keep her where she was.

‘Horrible,’ she huffed. ‘No life force—cabin fever—my back hurts and the birth’s screwed up my bladder, what’s up with that? Harry’s teething. James is dealing with that today, thank God. We swap round for these things, so we each get to leave the house about once a month: isn’t that great? If You Know Who kills us all anyway, I’m going to be very upset I’ve missed out on all this nice weather for nothing.’

‘Do not,’ he warned, voice rough.

‘Fuck you,’ she said. ‘I get to joke about that all I want.’

Severus’s face spasmed in a caricature of a smile. The old, familiar impatience rose to the surface. He saw in her eyes that she’d noticed and found it funny.

‘God, this is odd,’ she complained.

‘Less odd than Lily Evans becoming a mother at twenty,’ he said. ‘I swear to Merlin, Lily, what the hell?’

He was only asking so he’d get a chance to say her name out loud.

‘Don’t know,’ she shrugged, unbothered. ‘Wasn’t planning on it. Didn’t want it. And then I did want it.’

‘A fair approach to making life-changing decisions.’

‘My style though,’ she eyed him for a moment, her gaze turning severe by grades. ‘You think I regret it now. I get it. But I don’t. You don’t know what it’s like—not until you’ve felt it, I suppose. It’s—’ she hesitated, searching for words; she’d always been better at being quick than being precise. ‘You know what it feels like, to see someone close to you, a friend, a sibling, someone you love, to see them again after a long time apart? You’ve forgotten what they look like, just a little. The edges have blurred. And then suddenly they’re here, and everything sharpens—like they’re more real than anyone else. The rest of the world is flat, your person has an extra dimension on the rest of it, and you wonder, how come everyone doesn’t just drop everything and stare, because _you_ can’t stop staring—that’s what I feel, every single time I look at him. Every _bloody_ time.’

He watched her. She scoffed, righted herself, then stared right back: a storm behind her eyes, a challenge.

‘Maybe—’ he swallowed. ‘Maybe I could meet him, one day.’

Lily’s expression shuttered. ‘Maybe,’ she said blandly. ‘Look, I can’t—you’ve only just—it’s all too new. I don’t—’ she huffed, annoyed at her own inefficacy. ‘I don’t trust you with that right now. I can talk to you for five minutes about pointless nonsense and that’s it. For now. I just need time. Alright?’

Severus nodded, hollow. ‘Of course.’

‘Don’t do that. God knows I have time to think. It’s all I have, stuck at the house. Next time I see you, we’ll talk again, won’t we? But right now, I can’t—you don’t want me to say things I’ll regret.’

Severus considered. ‘Next time,’ he said, ‘we will talk for six minutes.’

She smiled. ‘Sure.’

He hadn’t been blocking her way, but he stepped to the side nevertheless, inclining his head. It was an out and she was about to take it—but then, she hesitated.

‘Just the one thing,’ she murmured, half to herself. ‘I was—I’ve already said some things I regret. Our final year. I wasn’t, back then—I was stupid _._ Something. You know. Do you blame me?’

‘Yes,’ he said immediately. ‘For everything that’s ever gone wrong in my life.’

She laughed. But it was the truth.

‘I think you need to get yourself some agency, Severus.’

Agency had never been Severus’s strong point, and he told her so.

She smiled at him one last time, eyes caught on his. The two of them were scales, weighing the moment, skittering to find balance. She patted him on the shoulder awkwardly.

‘You’re horrible,’ she told him. Then she left.

The next Order meeting, Potter was sitting where she’d sat, but that was fine. Torturous, but fine: she’d told him they swapped. At the one after, he was wound tight with stupid hope and sick longing, and then Potter showed again, and Severus wished he could _kill him_.

He had told himself he would never speak to James Potter again. Ever.

He approached him right after the meeting.

‘Where is Lily?’ His voice came out odd, unlike himself. His shoulders were sagging; he was trying to make himself smaller. He hated this, the old trepidation, the burn of unhealed shame. He was too self-conscious to even look him in the eye.

‘Oh, uh, Harry’s had a bad night. She’s stayed with him today, so—’ he cleared his throat. He was running his fingers through his hair, over and over: he was nervous. Severus hated that even more. ‘She’ll be here for the next one, I think. Is it—November first, right?’

Severus had the sickening hunch that Potter knew exactly when it was. The last thing he wanted was James Potter placating, conciliatory, _mature_ : not everyone had the bloody luxury of moving on.

‘November first,’ he confirmed dully.

‘Yeah, that’s what I thought. She’ll be here then. Alright. Anyway. See you around.’

The day before that next meeting, he couldn’t eat. His first Halloween feast as a Hogwarts professor and he daydreamed it away, thinking of what to ask, how to ask it, when to divert and when to push. He would inquire about her son first, that seemed right. Her reading. The colour of the bathroom tile. Was Harry ginger, too? There was nothing he didn’t want to know, if plenty he would need to drink about after. His six minutes, and then seven, and ten, and then the rest of their lives.

Late that night, he was pulled out of sweet, anxious, terrible insomnia, and summoned to the Headmaster’s office.

And that was it.

‘More?’

He’d forgotten he was holding the glass. He shook his head, then nodded.

‘He wants more,’ Leeni translated. ‘So do I.’

‘I know,’ Kauko said. ‘More of this, or—’

‘No, no—’

‘—the other.’

Somehow, that was enough. No context. Kauko brought back the right bottle.

Severus stared at the woven basket set on the floor at her feet, and listed the names of the flowers within to staunch off tears. Hopelessly foolish. Ridiculous. Only—only that synchroneity, the _knowing._ Even when they’d argued, even when they’d not seen each other, even once he’d realised it would never be what he wished—they’d had _that._ He needed it now, so he could ask her what he should do about Albus, about Harry, about himself; she would likely have no idea either, but then that wouldn’t matter—

He would be content, he was sure, knowing that she was somewhere out there, breathing, thinking. He could breathe and think then. He would know who they were and how they ended. There was a life, tucked away in the shadows of his mind; there, on the sofa across the room, feet propped up on one another, eyes limpid and lingering—there was a life he could have had, and he felt like he’d been robbed.

He wiped his cheek where he’d failed. They hadn’t noticed: they’d been looking at each other.

‘Good night,’ he said awkwardly and staggered to his feet. Perhaps it had been irresponsible to drink so soon after the concussion. Harry would be indignant if he knew.

‘Wait,’ Kauko nearly fell off the sofa, reaching haphazardly into the basket. She felt around, then extended a hand with a wilting flower in sharp yellow: a marsh marigold.

‘Sweet dreams,’ she said with a sloppy smile. Leeni shoved a foot into her side.

Severus hobbled upstairs, where he lay out the flower on the sill, next to the fern leaf Albus had given him. Old love and the future. Brilliant. Was there really any need for this ridiculous symbolism, that’s what he wanted to know.

He showered and changed, he drank a full glass of water and he brushed his teeth, and still he did not know what he would be placing under his pillow tonight. It shouldn’t even have mattered. It wouldn’t matter, surely, if he weren’t drunk.

He’d smothered the light and stared at his choices now in only the glow of the sky. They looked phantasmagorical, fluttering gently in the breeze from the window he’d propped ajar. If the weather worsened, they would be blown off the sill.

He left them there.

He dreamed that he was picking cloudberries to give to Harry, but his basket had a hole in the bottom and could never fill up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've received a lot of lovely comments on the last chapter -- I was very happy to see you enjoyed it! Hopefully, I will get to replying to some of them later on this week, once I feel a little better: I've come down with covid and my God, for the first three days I could barely find the energy to roll over from one side to the other.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, and since the next chapter is all nice and ready, I should see you on Saturday without any trouble.


	23. Twenty-Two: Inari (IV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Thunder struck the house until it rocked on its feet, until the birches whistled and moaned under the weight of racing air, until Harry’s heart missed a beat and restarted so it could happen all over again._

**Twenty-Two: Inari (IV)**

Thunder struck the house until it rocked on its feet, until the birches whistled and moaned under the weight of racing air, until Harry’s heart missed a beat and restarted so it could happen all over again.

The sun had faded by now, the last tendrils of white like ribbons among the easy dusk. But lightning illuminated the attic in stark contrast, drawing the shape of the armoire into focus, overexposing the white of the sheets, blinding him for long enough that he was still blinking it away when the awful racket of skies splitting open followed, reverberating in Harry’s every limb. He felt it up his spine, in his every tooth.

Harry wasn’t afraid of storms, but then he’d never seen one quite like _this._

He kicked off the sheets in frustration. It was inconceivable to sleep, and not sleeping always made him anxious: the minutes ticked by, and with each, his chances of getting enough hours in to wake up well-rested. Or to fall asleep at all—it became impossible after three a.m., he knew. The next day would be ruined if he didn’t sleep. He would be too tired to do well in his lesson with Leeni, too tired to help with the harvest or with the fence-painting, too tired to keep a rein on his temper. He didn’t want to have a rubbish day. In the thick of the night, the prospect struck him as horribly miserable.

The house shook with the next stroke of thunder. It was stupid to be afraid and yet he was, very much so. Annoyed with himself, with the storm, with the lack of lights in the attic, he scrambled up to stand and tiptoed across the creaky floor to the ladder.

It sang under his feet. He didn’t think he was doing anything particularly wrong: surely no one would begrudge him getting up to go to the bathroom or get a glass of water? But the Dursleys usually locked him up during the nights, and there was a persistent itch in the back of his head that compelled him to stealth—he felt like at any moment, a door might bang open and Snape would come careening out to yell, ‘What on Earth do you think you’re doing?’, like all the other times Harry had had no idea he was even breaking some unwritten rule.

In the kitchen, he poured himself a glass of water, which he took with him to the sitting room. The embers in the fireplace had ceased their sizzling, but they were warm to the touch: it couldn’t be _that_ late. Definitely not yet three. He felt just a little safer here, with a full floor of the house between him and the angry skies; but he couldn’t very well fall asleep in someone else’s sitting room.

He wished he were back in Gryffindor Tower. He’d always slept best there, and even when he didn’t, he could lie awake listening to the other boys’ breathing and feel at peace.

Thinking about Hogwarts had been a horrible idea, because now he was thinking of Ron and Hermione, and his stomach was twisting. He would never have been so anxious sneaking around at night if he had his friends with him. They made him brave, Harry realised: he was different when he was with them, he was _better_ , and now that he didn’t have them near, he was back to the boy he’d been before he knew he was a wizard—quiet, odd, afraid.

It would be a month soon since he’d seen them last, and a month wasn’t much at all, but—Harry had never had anyone to miss before. He hadn’t realised how grim a feeling it was.

Everything was grim, he decided. The whole lot. This night. Tomorrow. His life. He hated storms.

A blare of lightning. Leeni was standing in the doorway, eyes dark.

Harry scrambled back, lungs tightening and fingers clutching at the comforter. But she was just standing there, looking at him; and the demon-like gaze, that was just her usual impassivity, painted eerie by the light.

‘You’re not in bed,’ she said. With anyone else, Harry might have thought this was a veiled accusation, but she was only stating the fact.

‘I couldn’t sleep,’ he muttered. ‘Sorry.’

She reflected on this. Then, she beckoned him toward her. ‘Come.’

He followed obediently, sure she was leading him back up to the attic; but she stopped by the door to Snape’s bedroom, and banged on it like her life depended on it.

The door blew open. Snape was on the other side, eyes wide with urgency. ‘What is it?’

There was a smile tucked into Leeni’s chin. She was playing a joke. Clearly, storms had a vastly different effect on her than they did on Harry.

She gave him a little push on the back. ‘Found this downstairs,’ she said.

Snape frowned at him. He didn’t ask what on Earth Harry thought he was doing, which was something at least.

‘I was getting some water,’ Harry explained, very unhappy about all of this. ‘I was going to go back to bed soon. I just can’t sleep.’

‘Yes, well, who could?’ Snape scoffed. ‘If we’re not all deaf by tomorrow morning, it will be a joyous occasion. In.’

It was not a very polite way to invite someone into your room, but this was an altogether odd situation and Harry didn’t feel confident enough to point it out.

Snape closed the door in Leeni’s face, which would have also been rude, only it seemed a natural conclusion to the joke, and then he gestured for Harry to sit in the armchair. He had to move a book and a dulled pencil to the windowsill, and curl his legs close to his chest to avoid putting his dirty feet in Snape’s sheets. This room, Harry thought, wasn’t nearly big enough to contain two people in it at the same time.

‘Well? What’s wrong?’

Maybe Snape had gone deaf already. ‘Nothing,’ he said, this time much louder. ‘I couldn’t sleep. Is that a crime?’

Snape pressed two fingers to his temple. ‘Fine, but is yelling about it absolutely necessary?’

‘You didn’t hear me the last time I said it,’ Harry pointed out sullenly.

‘Oh, I see. You are here to give me cheek. Let me at least sit down for it, shall I?’

This was getting annoying. Snape was playing and Harry had no interest. ‘Stop.’

‘Are you afraid of the storm?’

‘No, I’m not _afraid_ —I’m not five. It’s just loud.’

‘Yes, storms rather tend to be. I didn’t realise this simple fact of life was so soul-shattering.’

‘It’s not soul-shattering, I just can’t sleep, okay?’

Snape was silent for a moment. Harry could have easily met his eye if he glanced up from where he’d hid his face between his knees, but he wasn’t going to.

‘Okay,’ he heard him say. ‘Then don’t sleep.’

‘I _can’t_ —’ Harry’s frustration caught in his throat. ‘If I don’t sleep now, I’ll not sleep the whole night.’

‘Then don’t.’

‘I have to get up in the morning and do things!’

‘What things might you possibly need to do?’

‘My lesson! Like, learning natural magic, remember? And I’m supposed to help Kauko with picking mushrooms, _and_ with painting the fence. And I’m just going to be sleep-deprived and annoyed all day.’

‘Lessons can be rescheduled. Have you signed a contract obliging you to having one every day?’

‘No, but we always have a lesson in the morning.’

‘Then you are within your right to feel tired and skip one. It will be quite the blow, but I do believe Leeni will eventually recover from the disappointment.’

Harry snorted. Yeah, when you put it like that, it didn’t sound like a big deal, but you could make anything seem unimportant if you cracked enough jokes about it. ‘I’ve still got to do the fence.’

‘Kauko is perfectly capable of painting the fence herself. Although it might be too wet tomorrow to attempt it anyway. And before you say anything, I assure you she can go mushroom picking on her own, too.’

‘She’ll be upset with me if I tell her I can’t go just because I’m too lazy.’

‘In that case, I shall tell her I have forbidden it. You have detention all day tomorrow for giving me cheek, you’re not allowed out of the house. That will also provide the perfect excuse for any displays of foul mood on your part. Next problem, please.’

Harry grinned into his knees. That was a good idea, actually: whenever he didn’t feel like doing something, he could just tell people Snape had given him detention. It would be a lie, sure, but what was Snape going to do if it ever got back to him—say that he _hadn’t_ given Harry detention? That would only chip away at his reputation.

‘The storm’s really loud up in the attic,’ he complained.

‘You can stay here until it passes.’

‘I can’t sleep here!’

‘Last I heard, your intention was to stay awake all night so you could be miserable tomorrow.’

‘That’s not my intention, it’s just what’s going to happen.’

‘Forgive me if I don’t see the practical distinction. If the storm doesn’t quieten down by the time you’re ready for bed, you can sleep on the sofa downstairs. Next.’

At the rate they were going, Harry was going to run out of problems real soon. He bit his lip. ‘I miss my friends,’ he confessed quietly.

‘That is—not unexpected,’ Snape hesitated. ‘Perhaps you could write them tomorrow.’

Harry stared at him. ‘Write? But I thought—’

‘It was too risky when we travelled,’ Snape cut him off. ‘But now—we can ask the Headmaster to take the letters and post them from Hogwarts. Let me be clear though: you will be given rules about what you are and are not allowed to write about, and you _will_ follow them.’

‘I won’t write about where we are or anything!’ Harry’s heart soared with swelling hope. ‘I’ll—you can even read them—well, no, you can’t, because that’s private, but I swear that I won’t—’

‘Yes, I’m the one who has put the idea forward, Potter. You don’t have to try and convince me.’

Harry sank back in his seat, trying to ease the excitement into something less disturbing. He wanted to shout with joy, but it _was_ the middle of the night.

A bolt of lightning struck so close, he didn’t need to listen for the thunder—he felt it in his every bone.

‘Aren’t you cold?’ Snape was wholly unbothered by the noise. Harry wished he could be that indifferent to the world at large. ‘Put your feet under the duvet.’

‘My feet are dirty though.’

‘Dirty? What on Earth have you been doing?’

‘Nothing!’ Harry bristled. ‘I’ve just been walking around barefoot, so—’

‘Were you planning on washing your feet before going back to bed?’

Was he supposed to? ‘No?’

‘Then what is the problem?’

Harry thought about explaining to Snape that they were wholly separate issues, putting your dirty feet into your own bed and putting them into someone else’s, but if he managed to convince him, he wouldn’t get the duvet, and he _was_ getting chilly. He straightened his knees until his feet slipped under the covers and his legs lay flat on the warmed mattress. If he stretched them out a little further, he would be nudging at Snape’s thigh.

‘Is that the end of your ongoing life issues?’

Harry shrugged. He didn’t really have anything else specific, only this nebulous cloud of bad feeling; he didn’t want to whinge, but he also didn’t want to get kicked out of the room if Snape decided he was done talking. He wriggled his toes instead, watching the sheets distend and drop, over and again until Snape caught his feet through the fabric and held them still.

‘I’m just being weird.’

Snape did not react either which way. The silence made Harry anxious.

‘I never used to be afraid of storms or anything,’ he said. ‘And I’m not now, I’m just—I’m nervous and not just now, I’m nervous all the time. I know I’m being childish and all, but I—it didn’t use to be like that. Usually I’m not so, I don’t know. Weird.’

Snape hummed. ‘You don’t seem _weird_ to me. And the circumstances are such that I am not at all surprised you would often feel nervous.’

‘You didn’t know me before though. I used to be in trouble all the time, too. Not like, not school trouble or—you know, breaking rules trouble, I mean bad—circumstances. And I wasn’t this nervous.’

‘I imagine your relatives weren’t much interested in offering comfort. It makes sense to me that you would choose to hide these feelings and concentrate on survival.’

Harry hadn’t felt like he’d been _hiding_. This was the very opposite of what he’d wanted to hear: he didn’t want to be like this all the time, he wanted to get back to how he was _before_. Though if that meant going back to Dursleys—

‘Does your head still hurt?’ he remembered suddenly. Lightning illuminated Snape’s face as it twisted in amusement: it made him look like a night terror. On instinct, Harry tried to pull his legs away, but Snape’s hold was too firm.

‘If I hear that question one more time, it might well start.’

Harry wriggled his toes again. Without looking, Snape tightened his fingers around them in warning. His mouth quirked.

‘I stole my wand from your coat,’ Harry said.

Snape’s head whipped to face him.

‘On the train to Warsaw.’ He gulped, staring down his lap. His hands fisted ineffectually on the upholstery. What was he doing? ‘After I read the article in the Prophet, because I thought—but then I put it back later. I didn’t cast any spells or anything like that, I swear. And in Zakopane, one time when you left and told me to stay in the house, I didn’t stay, I went to the big field behind the garden and I met this adder and talked to it, and then it bit me, but Agata used natural magic to heal me. And I know I should have told you she could do magic, but she said she didn’t even have a wand, so I didn’t think it was dangerous or anything, and—and I didn’t want to leave yet, because I really liked it there, and that was really stupid but I didn’t know she was going to hurt you, I swear—sorry.’

He released his breath. He waited.

When he risked a glance up, Snape appeared not to be blinking.

‘I’m sorry,’ Harry repeated, hoping to break him out of the trance.

‘You—’ Snape halted, then took a harsh breath. ‘What did you mean by saying that you _talked_ to the adder?’

‘Uh.’ This felt to Harry like the least condemning piece of his confession, so he didn’t at all mind talking about it, hopefully at length. ‘It just told me to go away and not touch the nest, and I wasn’t going to, but I think it got scared.’

‘And you understood it?’

‘Well, yeah.’

‘Of course you did,’ Snape muttered, seemingly to himself. He ran a hand down his face. ‘I don’t even know what to tell you, you little fool—do you even comprehend the seriousness of hiding such a thing from me? Have you completely forgotten that my primary purpose during this excursion is to protect you? How on Earth do you expect me to do so when you refuse to tell me the truth?’

Tears hung heavy on Harry’s eyelashes, blurring his vision. ‘I don’t know,’ he whispered.

‘No,’ Snape’s voice dripped with acid. ‘Me neither. You are certainly not going mushroom picking now. If I can’t trust you to inform me when you’ve been hurt, how am I to ever allow you to leave my sight?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Harry repeated, not knowing at all what to say to make this better. Why had he ever opened his mouth?

‘That is well and good, but what am I supposed to do with an apology? Do you not see—’ Snape cut himself off. ‘I have the sense that your pretend detention tomorrow will turn out much more real than anticipated.’

Harry shook his head desperately. ‘No,’ he pleaded.

‘No? Then tell me what else to do. What do I do to ensure this _never_ happens again?’

Harry opened and closed his mouth. What did Snape expect him to say?

Thunder rumbled outside. The storm was fizzling out now. Rain shook against the windowpane.

Snape sighed and sagged, like all the anger had left him in one. ‘Never mind.’

Panic rose in Harry, sharply acidic. ‘What? No—no, you can—I won’t do it again! You can punish me—give me detention or—’ he scrabbled desperately for an idea that might appeal to Snape, but back at school, he mostly just enjoyed taking points from Gryffindor, and that wasn’t very helpful in the middle of summer, ‘—or give me some other punishment, whatever you want—’

‘I am not going to waste our time on disciplinary measures that will accomplish nothing. I should not have asked you that question. You are unable to provide me with an answer.’

Harry wrapped his arms around his chest so tight it hurt. The sob shook silently through his frame.

‘Alright, calm down,’ Snape was saying, which almost made Harry laugh: how could he be calm? ‘The wand, this was after the adder incident, correct? You took it on the train to Warsaw? If I thought you might be able to use your wand to protect yourself, I would have reconsidered letting you keep it on you, but you do not yet know any defensive spells, do you?’

Harry shook his head.

‘The balance of risk and gain in this case is heavily skewed then, because there is always the possibility you might misplace it, correct?’ He nodded obediently; Snape was speaking much softer now, but Harry still only wanted for this to be over. ‘In any case, you seem to have realised that much on your own, so—well done.’

That stopped the next sob short. Harry stared up at him. ‘Why are you being nice?’

Snape refused to meet his eye. ‘I’m trying out positive reinforcement.’

Harry considered this.

‘It’s weird,’ he decided.

Snape snorted. He didn’t seem particularly angry anymore, but Harry reasoned that the balance of risk and gain was, in this case, skewed toward asking to be sure.

‘Are you angry?’

‘No,’ he smiled. ‘I am not. The storm seems to have moved on. Now that you’ve been exculpated, might you perhaps give sleep another chance?’

Harry was too high on emotion to possibly fall asleep, but he felt it safest not to argue. ‘Can I still write to my friends tomorrow?’

‘Have I at any point indicated otherwise?’

Harry would have much preferred a straight answer, but he supposed Snape wouldn’t be himself if he gave up on being annoying. ‘Then okay.’

He was in the process of extracting his legs from the sheets when the springs of the bed whined, and then Snape was standing up and pulling him into the air. The duvet fell unceremoniously to the floor, and Harry wrapped his arms around Snape’s neck on pure instinct, feeling altogether alarmed.

‘We don’t want you putting your horribly dirty feet in clean sheets,’ Snape muttered. He was so close like this that his voice tickled Harry’s ear, and he had to angle his head away and hide it in the crook of his neck. ‘Where’s this water you were allegedly getting?’

‘I left it downstairs,’ Harry mumbled. His cheeks burned. This was too weird for words, but then again, this was a weird night altogether.

Snape bent sideways to reach for the wand he’d left on the windowsill, tipping Harry with him in a way that felt distinctly precarious. He tightened his arms and legs around him, feeling like a monkey.

‘ _Accio_ Harry’s water.’

The glass floating behind them, they climbed to the attic just like this, which seemed to Harry inconvenient and entirely unnecessary. He wasn’t all that light, either: he could feel Snape’s muscles tensing in exertion. He would have much preferred walking up on his own, but he was too embarrassed by this whole thing to say so.

Snape set him down on the mattress. It felt as though Harry’s brain wasn’t working properly anymore: it took an expectant look from Snape for him to recognize he should be lying down.

‘Can I get some water?’

Snape obligingly lowered himself to perch on the edge of the mattress and pressed the glass into Harry’s hand. He seemed intent on waiting until he was done so that he might put it away, which made Harry drink far longer than he had the need for, watching from the corner of his eye as Snape drew close whenever he stopped for breath, and away when he started swallowing again.

Soon, Harry felt bad and gave it up. As he lay back down, he realised Snape had been acting like his servant again. Maybe he was playing, too. Harry sometimes liked to pretend that Dudley was an heir to the throne: it had made waiting on him a lot more fun.

He had to bite his lip to hold in the laugh.

‘What’s so amusing?’

‘Nothing,’ Harry had rolled onto his side and could now see from up close Snape’s hand where it rested on the mattress, propping him up. Before he could think about it much, he wrapped both his hands around the wrist, one on top of the other. ‘I was just playing—I was pretending the other day that you were my servant, and now it’s like you’re pretending that.’

‘Hm,’ Snape mused. ‘I would much rather pretend that _you_ were my servant. That would mean you must obey me in everything without argument, wouldn’t it?’

‘Yeah, well, I’m not pretending that.’

‘Your mother and I used to play that game,’ he said softly. Harry’s hands tightened their hold. ‘Although I believe we played slaves, not servants. She used to make me eat a variety of absolutely disgusting foods—biscuits slathered with mayonnaise, bananas dipped in Marmite—claiming they were banquet dishes that might have been poisoned and I needed to sample them to check.’

‘Were you playing that again when you bought the raw fish in Amsterdam?’

Snape chuckled drily. ‘Hilarious.’

The story he’d told seemed happy enough, but his tone was tinged with sadness. He often sounded like that when he told Harry about his mum, and sometimes, he would peer at him after like he expected Harry to have been made sad, too. But they were only stories: Harry told stories about his parents all the time, if only to himself. Snape missed Harry’s mum and talking about her made him sad; Harry had supposed once to be missing her, but now that he had the experience of missing Ron and Hermione to compare it with, he realised it wasn’t at all the same thing. You couldn’t miss a character from a book—you could only wish they were real.

Rain pattered on the roof. It didn’t sound much like water; Harry imagined bags of peas being overturned one after the other in the sky. Snape pried the wrist out of his clutches, which Harry fought against at first before realising what he was doing, but he only moved to rest his palm on Harry’s head. He gave him the left hand to hold instead, and twined their fingers together.

Harry imagined another story, now: in this one, it rained for such a horribly long time there was a deluge, and Leeni and Kauko’s house remained standing only because natural magic had protected it. Harry and his parents, who were alive, and Snape and Hermione and Ron and Hagrid, they all had to move in because their own houses had sunk. There weren’t enough rooms for everyone, of course, so Harry and his friends stayed in the attic together with Harry’s mum and dad, who were children, too, because they always were in Snape’s stories and it felt odd to Harry to imagine them differently. Snape kept his current room for himself, because of course _he_ would never agree to sharing, but he let Harry sit with him when the attic got too loud.

Hedwig was there, too, and brought them news from the outside world. But the news didn’t even matter since they couldn’t do anything about it.

That was how Harry eventually managed to sleep: imagining they were stranded in the heart of an endless sea, the house drifting like a boat on its gentle waves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all those who've left sweet comments on the previous chapter, and those who wished me a quick convalescence. Fortunately, while it made me feel shit while it lasted, I seem to have fought covid off pretty quickly, and my family are all feeling better too.
> 
> This sweetheart of a chapter is the last breath before the drop of the final arc, so I hope you've all enjoyed the fluff. On Wednesday, we're going to Privet Drive!


	24. Twenty-Three: Inari to Privet Drive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Whatever the boy will be, he might not ever become, and whatever Severus becomes, he cannot know until he does become it. He can’t live his life waiting for a future that might never come: they are here today. The time is now._

**Twenty-Three: Inari to Privet Drive**

Rain rattles on the roof shingles, sharp and metallic. The boy’s breathing has evened out, his neck has slackened, his hands have lost their clutch. His hair feels stiff: it hasn’t been washed properly. Even in the dim light, it looks sun-weathered, a strand here and there brightened into near auburn. The mattress creaks. Severus doesn’t know what time it is.

The future of the wizarding world rests here, warm against Severus’s hand. Inconceivable. But he _can_ conceive of it, these days: if handled well, the damage might push the boy toward greatness. The propensity for spikes of feeling can translate so easily into great acts of magic. The hero of the wizarding world is a mistrustful Parseltongue with a perverted sense of self-worth. A wizarding prodigy who cares little for his own life. A boy who doesn’t understand the concept of entitlement, sickly courageous and inclined toward kindness, with a storm behind his eyes. Whatever he grows into, it will be terrible and grand and impossible to ignore.

One day. But the wonder Severus feels is barely real, because he isn’t any of that yet. Whatever the boy will be, he might not ever become, and whatever Severus becomes, he cannot know until he _does_ become it. He can’t live his life waiting for a future that might never come: they are here today. The time is now.

He untangles his hands. The nausea of a paradigm shift wrecks through his body like potent poison, fast-acting, unstoppable, ruthlessly transformative. The rain sounds different, the way his body is put together feels unlike him, his hands are either too large or too small when he pulls the sheets tighter around Harry’s shoulders. The swell of energy paints the room bright and shimmering, but he wishes too that he could go back to a minute ago, to before the world had changed, because now he is holding the future in the palm of his hand and it weighs heavier than anything he’s ever touched.

He still doesn’t know what time it is. He knocks on the door anyway.

Leeni is the one who staggers to open it. Her hair is pulled into a knot that he imagines she’ll struggle to untangle in the morning. Her eyes are barely open. ‘Hmm?’

‘I’m leaving,’ he says quickly. ‘If all goes well, I will be back tomorrow—morning, afternoon, I can’t be certain. The boy is asleep now, but he might wake up tired, so don’t bother him with your endless list of activities if you can help it.’

Leeni blinks at him. ‘Alright,’ she says.

From behind her, Kauko gives a rebellious little noise, hand coming up to wave at him from the crests and dips of her duvet nest. ‘No, not alright! Where are you even going, it’s the middle of the night—nothing will be open—’

‘You will explain when you come back,’ Leeni states. ‘And you will come back.’

‘I will.’

‘Alright. The Floo is connected to the British network, but only via the fireplace Albus uses.’

Severus’s lungs clench. If he has to Floo into the Headmaster’s office— ‘Do you know where that is?’

‘Not Hogwarts. Somewhere in Hogsmeade.’

‘Alright,’ he repeats lamely. It makes her smile.

He dresses. The scratch of the shirt, the slide of the trouser leg, the thump of the shoe he drops. The fabric of Potter’s Invisibility Cloak pours in his hands, ephemeral yet palpable. A thread of pain lingers in his head, not serious but strong enough to affect his thinking. He needs every last piece of clarity, so he pillages the kitchen cabinet for a vial of pain reliever. It numbs his tongue as he downs it.

It feels as though the Floo powder should drip between his fingers, that he should leave behind a mess and stain his shirt. But his hands are remarkably steady.

‘Hogsmeade,’ he says, too loud in the silence of the house.

The direction is imprecise and so he stumbles from one fireplace to another, until finally he falls through into a dim room that smells of old grease and fermentation. A splinter peels off the old floor and jabs into his index.

A door opens: a spill of candlelight and drunken laugher. A woman looks wildly from one corner of the room to the other. He must have triggered an alarm, only he is standing in a kitchen, windows shuttered and the hob put to rest for the night, and the woman wears a dirty apron and the haunted look of one in customer service: what sort of establishment has a warded kitchen?

The one that Albus Dumbledore uses for covert travel, of course. Deeming this little mystery inconsequential to his current mission, Severus dismisses the curiosity and waits motionless until the woman gives up. Once the room has dipped into darkness again, he takes another handful of Floo powder from the mantle and orders, ‘Number 7, Wisteria Walk.’

The fire blazes blue. A fat, dirt-coloured cat jumps three feet into the air, but the rest of the house lies in too deep a slumber to mark his arrival. He’d worried about warding, but clearly Arabella’s anonymity was deemed a good-enough safeguard, and no one has bothered. He supposes other than Albus, few people in the Order ever knew of her existence in the first place, and those that did have by now forgotten. Severus only knows because Albus speaks of her sometimes, in his quieter days.

The guilt runs cold in his veins. He ignores it. The door out is bolted shut and takes focus. The air is soaked in the day’s heat. He has never been here before and without a map, he must wander: a park, a playground, an overturned rubbish bin. He lays his hands on the walls of the dark houses he passes, hoping to feel for a trace of the blood wards, but if it is there, he cannot sense it. Harry would be able to.

When he does feel it, the wave of magic nearly brings him down to his knees. He is at the right house; a squib could tell that much.

He presses the doorbell twice, then bangs on the door.

‘What the blasted—who are you? Do you know what time it is?’

The man’s face is swollen with sleep. His robe lies grotesquely skewed, halfway down one shoulder: he’s been woken from a deep rest.

‘Mr Dursley,’ Severus says politely. ‘I need to speak with your wife.’

‘My wife? My wife is asleep, you moron—’

She isn’t though: the skinny silhouette is half-hidden behind a doorframe, but Severus knows what Petunia Evans looks like when she’s sneaking about.

‘I have an urgent matter to discuss that concerns her nephew. I’m sure she will brave the imposition for an old friend.’

The silhouette pushes off the wall. She moves just the same as when they were children. ‘Severus?’

‘Petunia.’

‘Get out of my house.’

‘You know that never really works, don’t you?’

‘Petunia, you know this man?’

She has stepped into the light from the porch just in time to show Severus her sneer. He remembers the sneer. Something in him jolts oddly: it almost feels like some misplaced joy.

‘An old friend of my sister’s,’ she says, like she could not think of a single worse thing. ‘I’m not letting him into the house.’

‘Wait, he’s—you’re one of them—one of _that_ sort, aren’t you?’

‘One of _a_ sort, certainly,’ Severus corrects smoothly. He revels in the twitch of Petunia’s lip, in her hard swallow of distaste. Merlin but he’d missed playing her.

Dursley grabs him by the shoulder and pulls him inside the house. The door slams shut behind them, and then the light is flicked on.

Suddenly, Petunia looks like a person he doesn’t know at all.

Delicate wrinkles frame her eyes. Her hair has been dyed just a shade off natural, her stick figure has filled. They stare at one another, eyes flicking to take in the changes, the weight of the time elapsed settling heavy between them: years since they’ve seen each other last. Years that she’s been gone.

‘I don’t want the neighbours seeing the likes of you on my doorstep,’ Dursley barrels on, ignorant. ‘Say your piece and go. What, you want us to take the boy back? You done with him? We had one of you over here the other day saying it’ll be another week at least, but I’m not surprised you people don’t know what you’re doing—’

‘Your nephew had to be taken out of the country because there are wizards out there who’d like him muzzled,’ Severus interrupts, eyes fixed on Petunia. ‘These are not people to be trifled with: they will do anything to get what they want. And that is not to mention the catalyst for this renewed interest. The Dark Lord attempted to murder the boy again just last month. He is seeking ways to return to his old power and when he does, there will be another war, this time centred around your beloved nephew.’

‘What the hell are you—’

Severus pulls out his wand. ‘I suggest you keep quiet,’ he whispers. ‘Your wife and I are trying to have a conversation.’

Dursley shrinks away, face torn between terror and fury. Petunia’s eyes flick to him momentarily before settling again on Severus. She and Lily were never much alike, but the shape of her eyes—that is the same.

‘Why are you telling me this?’ her voice trembles. ‘I haven’t seen you in years and now you come strolling into my house, threatening my family—’

‘That is exactly why I am telling you. As long as the boy calls this place his home, he poses a threat to _your family_. I have strolled in here so very easily, Petunia. Do you remember what the Cruciatus curse does? I’ve told you all about it, haven’t I?’

She blanches. Severus smiles leisurely. ‘All I need is my wand: I could cast it on your husband right now to demonstrate if you’re struggling to remember. If you’d prefer, I can cast a silencing spell, too. I wouldn’t want the screams to wake your son.’

‘You disgust me,’ she spits. ‘You always have. I still don’t understand how Lily didn’t see it.’

‘Often disgusted, aren’t you, Petunia? Who else disgusts you—your nephew, perhaps?’

‘Shut your—’

‘I don’t care!’ he shouts, rattled beyond what he has ever expected in coming here. ‘I don’t care about your little sins, Petunia, or what you’ve done to the boy. It would bring me great pleasure to see you and your husband forced to service a bored Death Eater—compelled with magic to chomp off your own limbs one-by-one—held in cages like circus freaks—oh, because that’s what you are to them, of course, that’s what you are to me, too, don’t forget—’

‘Stop!’

‘Fine,’ he catches his breath. He feels like he’s fifteen again and doesn’t like it. ‘It would bring me pleasure, but here I am with a warning instead. The blood wards are the only reason the boy continues to stay here: break them. Tell me you will not take him back. _Decide_ you will never take him back. I will need any possessions of his that remain in the house. Once the wards are broken, they cannot be easily reinstated, and you’ll be safe.’

‘Take him!’ Dursley shouts. ‘Bloody keep him and get out, you—’

Severus presses the tip of his wand to the man’s lips. ‘I don’t care one whit for your opinion on the subject, Dursley, and neither does the magic that rests on your house. I need Petunia to say it.’

Her hands are shaking. She presses them into the pockets of her robe. Then, she looks up at him: a storm.

‘No,’ she says.

The strangled sound that leaves his lips is half-laughter, half-pain. ‘I swear to God, Petunia—’

‘I won’t do it,’ she vows. ‘I won’t break the wards.’

‘This is rich,’ he sneers, taking a step toward her: she shrinks but does not look away. ‘You spend years treating him like dirt, and now you take the moral high ground and what, expect that it will save your soul? Do you think this makes it all better, Petunia? Do you feel exonerated?’

She’s breathing fast. Severus closes his eyes and occludes until everything is gone, until the slate is clean. He steps back.

‘Dumbledore—’

‘I will handle Dumbledore.’

‘And what will become of the boy?’ she barks. ‘Perhaps here, he isn’t—but do you really expect that I will be bullied into putting him out on the street? That I will allow him to be snatched by—by those wizards you’ve just threatened me with? Who do you take me for, you dirty little piece of—’

‘Do you think I would allow that to happen?’ He’s yelling again. So much for occlumency. ‘That I would be here, asking this of you, if I thought for a moment it would bring harm to Lily’s child? Who do you take _me_ for?’

‘I don’t know! You haven’t said a word about what will happen to him if I agree to this insane demand!’

‘I—’ Severus realises now that he hasn’t said it at all, not to anyone, not yet. Petunia Evans is going to be the first to hear: how horribly apt. ‘I’m going to take him.’

She arches an eyebrow. Shame forces him to look away.

‘Take him where?’ she mocks.

‘He’ll stay with me,’ he says, barely above a whisper. ‘I have a plan, but in order for it to work, I need the blood wards gone.’

He feels her eyes on him. He is acting like a teenager again; she _should_ laugh at him. He inhales. He looks up to meet her gaze head-on.

‘Do you want him?’ she asks.

‘Yes.’

She swallows. It feels like they are stood on the brink, like all they need is one step.

‘This is no longer Harry Potter’s home,’ Petunia says softly. ‘If he knocks on the door, I will not admit him.’

A weight shifts off Severus’s chest. He lowers his wand.

‘Thank you,’ he says.

She nods stiffly. ‘There are some things in the bedroom upstairs.’

Bedroom is a big word. There is a bed, certainly. Severus searches the sheets for any forgotten toys but finds nothing except an old tissue. To be safe, he shrinks the pillow and the blanket, and pockets both: it’s unclear what qualifies as a personal item, but he supposes these might hold a measure of sentimental value. One of the legs of the desk is too short and the whole thing sags to the side; the drawers are empty. A pair of underwear, three mismatched socks and a single oversized shirt with a hole in the sleeve are all he finds in the closet. It is uncanny, and uncomfortably so; he has expected to find little, but this is just _wrong_. The boy has lived here his whole life. Hasn’t he?

Petunia and her husband are speaking in hushed tones when he returns downstairs. Both send him hateful glares. They look for a moment so alike they might be brother and sister.

‘Is there another room the boy made use of? Somewhere he spent a significant amount of time?’

A shadow passes over her face. Frustration swells in his stomach. ‘If I miss anything substantial, the wards—’

She walks past him. He turns to follow her path: she pulls at her sleeve until it covers her fingers, and through the fabric clutches the bolt on the cupboard under the stairs.

She shakes the hand after, as if trying to displace some impurity that might have brushed against an exposed patch of skin.

Severus bends in half and pulls on the light cord. He feels sick with dread, and it’s entirely pointless: he knows already what he’s going to find.

It isn’t so much a makeshift bed as a nest of tattered blankets, stained and smelling. He can’t bring himself to touch them. He points his wand and whispers the shrinking incantation, then levitates the parcel into his pocket, ashamed of himself.

A cardboard box shoved to the back of the cupboard, poorly taped together, holds a few schoolbooks, marked with flaking doodles and stains from greasy fingers. On top of those, he gently lays the knight figurines set out on the shelf, the old jar of Nutella filled with markers and a few splintered crayons, the plush elephant sat on an overturned bucket like a king on a throne.

He takes the drawings off the walls: castles, forests, horses that look like dogs. The blue tack has dried, and he has to scrape it off the wall. Some of it lodges under his fingernail. He could just leave it: no one is likely to notice or care. But he wants this place clean, tidy. Once he has taken everything he can think of, he pushes the door fully open, to air it out.

He wants to go back to Inari, right now. He knows there’s no point, he knows the boy is asleep and perfectly safe, but he wants to _see it._

He nods at Petunia, then turns to leave. Maybe he should say something to her, but he can’t: if he tried, the sound that would come out wouldn’t form words.

Once on the porch, he flings the Invisibility Cloak over himself and stands a while, breathing, as magic bleeds out of the house, taking off weight. The cupboard. The bloody cupboard—The cupboard is nothing in the grand scheme of things. He cannot allow it to cloud his judgement: he has a lot to do tonight.

With that thought, he occludes, morphs his face into casual indifference, and Apparates to Malfoy Manor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A pivotal chapter! On Saturday, we're headed to Malfoy Manor, for Severus to execute the next step in the masterplan he's thrown together in, like, three minutes.


	25. Twenty-Four: Malfoy Manor to Hogsmeade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Lucius eyes him for a moment, seeking the clarification Severus will not allow him to find: he makes his mind a dark well, enchanting to gaze into but perfectly void._
> 
> _‘Our Severus,’ he drawls. ‘Never boring.’_

**Twenty-Four: Malfoy Manor to Hogsmeade**

Music flutters in the air. Glasses clink and dessert forks are still scraping, but the noise is subdued, like a whisper, like the few guests who remain are already half-asleep.

Severus waves off the house elf trying to pull on his coat and ventures toward the dinner hall. His footsteps are loud on the marbled floor. Just looking at the pattern reminds him of all the times he’s been here before. It has been years. He remembers fighting each time the childish inclination to slow down and mind not to step on any of the black squares.

‘—and so I told her, not my problem, because it wasn’t, see? I never used those blasted spells, only of course the little brat broke my wand, so they couldn’t check. And if she’s getting demoted, or, what, not getting promoted, I don’t even know what it was anymore—’

Severus has frozen by the door jamb. Lamotte is sitting sprawled in a soft chair, amber liquor tipped dangerously close to the edge of his glass. The crystal glimmers in the light from the fire. Of course: where there is a banquet, there is Quentin Lamotte. But it doesn’t much matter anymore if he recognizes Severus from Berlin, does it? This in an old fear, a habit to lose.

‘It was likely the fact she’s not a complete idiot,’ a woman snorts. She is sat on the wide arm of the chair, one elbow resting on Lamotte’s head. They are the both of them drunk beyond repair. ‘Oh, who’s that, Narcissa?’

Narcissa turns. She looks just the same as she did in youth: her cheeks have hollowed, her chin has sharpened, and still Severus could recognize her from a mile away. ‘Severus,’ she says, and he barely hears it over the music and the caving distance. He holds in the shudder: there is, still, that same thing _wrong_ about her.

‘Severus? Mr S. Snape?’ Lamotte squints. They are all of them wearing rich, lavish fabrics, mulberry silks and baby cashmeres and rubies glinting off fingers and ears, but Lamotte outshines them all. His cloak glitters like something from another plane of existence, and drips heavily onto the floor at his feet. Another old habit—Severus wants to walk up to him and lift the hem so it doesn’t dirty. ‘Mr S, how long it’s been! Well, come in, don’t just hover at the door—Lucius, you’ve never told me Severus was coming tonight!’

‘I did not think he would accept,’ Lucius lies smoothly, too polite to out him. ‘Severus is a very busy man, and I’m afraid he doesn’t match your appetite for lights and liquor, Quentin.’

‘Yes, well, who does,’ Lamotte smiles with all his teeth. They are each of them so white, they could be precious stones. ‘Do you like the robe, Severus? Demiguise threading—Gertrude bought it for me in Japan. But I was just telling the story of the duel—surely you’ve heard? Do you realise I still cannot walk properly? Nnene—the girl, Adeyemi, her name is, she is not from these parts, of course, so likely she didn’t even know what she was doing, but the nerve! Challenging a Lamotte to a wizards’ duel—oh, I didn’t think I’d see the day. It was invigorating.’

‘Quentin finds failure terribly exciting,’ the woman at his side says. ‘Nothing like a spot of public humiliation, is there?’

Now that he’s come closer, he recognizes the Gertrude Lamotte he knows concealed within her features. The last time he’d seen her, she was but a girl, shy and undignified. Now, she holds herself like a queen; Severus feels horribly underdressed and under-refined.

‘I wondered if I might have a word, Lucius,’ he says before the worst of the embarrassment shows through his face. The Malfoys are busy filling up glasses, but both the Lamottes notice: she hides her reaction in a sip, he smiles in ugly delight.

‘Heavens, Severus, it’s too late to talk business,’ Lamotte exclaims. ‘Come drink with me. I haven’t seen you in _years_ , what a shame—’

Lucius has the good sense to ignore him and takes Severus by the arm. He leads them through the echoey hall and the art-choked couloir into the study. A house elf pops into existence and flings logs into the cold fireplace, pouring magic until the blast of warm air colours Severus’s cheeks.

‘I have not heard from you in a while, Severus,’ Lucius admonishes softly. The decanter clinks under his careful ministrations; the firelight reflects off his cufflinks and draws a fluttery shape on the wall. ‘And then you appear out of nowhere, wearing muggle clothing of all things—it’s a relief that most of the guests have left, and Quentin is too fond of you to notice.’

Severus is too old for this, he realises.

‘The blood wards on Privet Drive have fallen,’ he says without preamble.

Lucius sets down the decanter. He doesn’t turn. ‘And how has that come to pass?’

‘I am not at liberty to say.’

‘Why should I believe it then?’

‘If the Ministry is so incompetent that they do not realise by tomorrow morning, send someone in to check as a precaution. Final day of the trial after all: every little thing counts. And you don’t seem to be doing well, do you?’

Lucius glares. He’s never handled failure well.

‘I know where the boy is now,’ Severus tells him. ‘I know where he’s been, why the wards have fallen—If I so pleased, I could give you this information and more. More than enough to sway the jury in your favour.’

‘It is not my favour, Severus. I am merely a representative of the Ministry—’

‘I assure you it does not please me to waste my time listening to lies.’

Lucius’s lips quirk. He takes a sip of wine. He doesn’t offer Severus the other glass.

‘The reason you are currently in possession of this allegedly priceless intelligence,’ he says, ‘is that you have been at the beck and call of dear Headmaster Dumbledore, doing everything in your power, I imagine, to aid him in crawling his way out of this mess. And the circumstances are utterly disgraceful. I hope you know I mean no offense, Severus, but I don’t see why I should trust you for a single second.’

‘I have helped Dumbledore,’ Severus admits, ‘because he has been able to give me several things I want. What can you give?’

Lucius arches an eyebrow. ‘That depends. What would _please you_?’

Severus draws a breath. ‘The boy.’

‘What of him?’

‘He’s mine,’ Severus declares, trying to believe it himself. ‘You name me guardian. The Ministry maintains custodial control and you maintain access, but I deal with the day-to-day.’

Lucius eyes him for a moment, seeking the clarification Severus will not allow him to find: he makes his mind a dark well, enchanting to gaze into but perfectly void.

‘Our Severus,’ he drawls. ‘Never boring.’

His neck has felt hot since seeing Lamotte, and now it is positively burning. This is not a part of his life he ever wishes to step back into, but his body does not care. ‘I will allow you time to consider.’

‘And where might I find you once I have?’

Severus chuckles. ‘I will find _you_ , Lucius.’

An incline of the head. Severus has been dismissed.

He exits the study on shaking legs, the vices of control loosened now that no one can see. Stupidly, he wants to go back into the dining hall and accept that drink, and stay until the sheer humiliation of it is unbearable—he wants to feel, he supposes, like he’s nineteen again.

The hint of a sound. He spins around so fast he surprises himself, wand at the ready. In its light, he makes out a small figure on the stairs, suspended in the shadows.

‘Evening,’ Draco whispers. ‘What’s the big secret?’

‘It would not be very secret if I told you, would it?’

‘Shhh,’ he chides. ‘Not so loud.’

The study door opens again. Draco scuttles up the stairs, the hem of his sleeping gown disappearing behind the corner. Severus decides to follow his example and makes his own escape.

He didn’t think to check whereabouts in Hogsmeade the Floo had brought him, so he must now wander aimlessly, kicking stones and watching the clientele of pubs and bars grow thinner and thinner. It is so much more convenient to be able to Apparate wherever he pleases: he has covered more ground tonight than he’d ever manage it with muggle transportation. But there’s a lack to it, too: a part of him misses the strain of his neck, the pain in his thighs, the legs falling asleep. Perhaps if he were properly exhausted with travel, he wouldn’t be thinking of the confrontation ahead.

He tells himself it is alright. He tells himself he has made his choice and there is no point now to feel anything much about it. Even if it were not too late to change his mind, he wouldn’t do it; so does he have any right to ache?

It has been hours. Maybe. Time slips through his fingers, insignificant.

‘Severus.’

Albus stands in the circle of light from a sagging lamp post. His eyes are perfectly emotionless.

With his left hand, he invites Severus to follow into the cul-de-sac. This is the final item on Severus’s agenda for the night. After this, he can sleep.

But he finds he cannot move. Could he pretend, perhaps, that he hasn’t seen him in the dark?

‘I am not inclined to wait for you, Severus.’

He swallows.

They enter The Hog’s Head together. Inside, it is exactly the kind of place in which Severus’s father would have tarried his nights, only with a splash more magic. The kind of place, perhaps, that Severus would have ended up in, if he hadn’t taken the Mark.

Albus is well-acquainted with it, too: he nods at the bartender and proceeds confidently upstairs, until they’re opening a _Do Not Enter_ door and situating themselves on the balcony across the cluttered storage room. Albus pulls the doors closed and spells wards into the splintering wood. The balcony overlooks the bins. The rising sun is cutting through the fog.

‘I have just been to Privet Drive. It appears the wards are well and truly down.’

‘Good,’ Severus tells the cigarette stain on the railing.

‘You have secured what you wanted, I suppose: he’s not going back,’ Albus isn’t looking at him either. His voice cuts deep into something fragile and unnamed in Severus’s chest. ‘And what now? Where do I send him, what do I do to keep him safe? You have wrought chaos and now I must tidy the mess?’

‘I have been to see Lucius. He has promised he will name me the boy’s guardian in exchange for information that will win him the trial.’

Silence.

‘And what information is that?’

The old anger rises to the surface. ‘Oh, I’ve been involved in this _mess_ long enough to think of plenty if I need to. The fact you’ve left him in an abusive home and lied about it will make for a good opening statement.’

As always, Albus sees straight through Severus’s outrage. ‘If you need to.’

He clenches his hands. ‘If I need to.’

‘I have to admit, Severus, I am impressed,’ he says, sounding the opposite. ‘If I promise you Harry and convince you not to go to Lucius, that will put an end to any hope I might have for future intelligence. But as matters stand, the only way to preserve your cover is to allow you to go to Lucius and give him control over Harry—which I cannot do. I am well and truly caught.’

‘I am not trying to blackmail you, Headmaster. But we each have our own goals we must strive to attain, and if you cannot give me what I want, then I must take it.’

He’s looking at him now. It’s worse.

‘And if I did say no, would you truly go to Lucius?’ he asks softly. ‘Would you steal the boy away and run, and never, I assume, speak with me again?’

He is unlikely to speak with him again either way, Severus thinks; not after this.

‘If you force me to, then yes, I will go to Lucius. But I cannot keep the boy from you. He needs you. Alive and best able to face the challenges ahead—that’s your job, isn’t it?’

Albus doesn’t answer. He is staring straight at the sun now. It’s very bad for his eyes—Severus wishes he could tell him to look away. ‘I understand you are—disappointed,’ he says instead.

The Headmaster’s lip quirks, but not in a nice way. ‘Disappointed,’ he repeats, like he’s trying the word on for size. ‘That is one word for it, I suppose. I am disappointed, though not, I imagine, in the way you think. Not with the goal you are striving to attain. How could I begrudge you wanting such a thing? But the way you’ve done this—as if our friendship meant nothing to you, Severus, that I cannot—’

He trails off. Friendship is the completely wrong word, Severus thinks. It suggests equal standing. To him, the gorge between them is unforgettable; he wonders if perhaps it doesn’t seem so to Albus.

From the very moment he first hatched this plan, in the attic stroking Harry’s hair, he has understood this was it: his relationship with Albus had to end. It is unsalvageable, it must be laid to rest, he’s known all along. But he doesn’t _want it._

‘I know I have made promises to you,’ he says, trying not to choke. ‘I know I am breaking them, but—’

‘Your promise to protect Lily’s child has always been vague, has it not?’ his voice is too level, too devoid of feeling: Severus despises him. ‘I imagine you do intend to fulfil it, if in a way that I do not agree with. As for your promise of service to me—’

‘I _would_ fulfil it, only—’

‘You have fulfilled it.’

Severus stares at him in shock. He has to argue. He doesn’t know how.

‘You’ve given me a full year. You risked your life every day,’ Albus continues, ignoring him. ‘And if that weren’t enough, you then gave me another ten, ten years of accommodating my failures and following my orders. I had planned to get every last drop of what you had to give, and I know there is much left that I’ve yet to tap, but I cannot bring myself to force you. I _wish_ I could use your guilt against you, because you are one of my chief assets—my greatest champion, Severus. But like a fool, I’ve grown to care for you. A terrible weakness, perhaps. So, if you wish it, your duty to me is over.’

‘I don’t want it to be over,’ he says. Begs.

‘I release you, Severus.’

‘I want to be your asset,’ he grasps. ‘I know my actions do not reflect—whatever you need me to do to stop him coming back, to fight against him when he does—I will do it, and not out of duty or whatever promises I have made—but that moment when you have true need of me again, that might be tomorrow or it might be twenty years from now. I am willing to give my life up for the cause, but—’

‘But you are not willing to give it up waiting for it.’

Their eyes meet.

‘No.’

Severus isn’t occluding and Albus isn’t either. Neither attempts to breach the other’s mind, but just knowing this is enough.

For a quiet moment, they only hold it, the understanding, this thread of perfect honesty. An owl perches on the railing, its big dark eyes bearing into Severus as it hoots curiously.

‘I wish we could have spoken like this earlier,’ Albus says. He pets the owl with gentle fingers, overly respectful. ‘Your interference with the wards, that I will not argue about—there is no point. We will not agree. But this ruse with Lucius. I wish you’d never felt such a thing necessary. It makes me feel—’ he purses his lips. He gives Severus a weak smile. ‘Well, no matter. What’s done is done, hmm? Come back to Hogwarts with me, Severus. Get some sleep before you go back to Inari. Then speak with Harry. If he agrees, you will have my full support.’

The weight of it: like Agata’s magic, pinning him to the floor, pushing air out of his lungs.

He must draw two wheezed breaths before he manages words. ‘Thank you,’ he whispers.

Albus is already taking the wards down. The balcony doors creak when he pulls at the frame. ‘I have assumed your goals were mine, Severus, merely because you never argued otherwise. A careless mistake.’

Severus has always assumed that, too. Maybe it bears more reflection. But at the moment, he is too shaken by what he has done, what he’s going to do. The night is over and he is here: the bins smell in the heat, the bakery on the other side of the road is opening its doors. He has done it. He’s doing it. What is he doing?

Albus touches his shoulder to signal that he should stand up now.

Startled, the owl flies away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are in the final stretch now! Thank you for all your comments on the last chapter.
> 
> Wednesday, we're back to Inari and Harry's POV.


	26. Twenty-Five: Inari to Korkia-Maura

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Every birthday, he’d thought he should have felt different, being an entirely new age and all, but today, he did genuinely feel it: new thoughts swirled in his mind, and when he’d looked in the hallway mirror, it was like looking at another boy._

**Twenty-Five: Inari to Korkia-Maura**

Sunlight spilled across the table. Harry’s porridge had the consistency of troll snot.

He’d got up after ten and felt better rested than he’d feared, but he was still annoyed.

He mashed the banana into a squishy pulp, until bubbles of air popped out on top. The oatmeal didn’t look as disgusting as it tasted, so it needed the help to match up visually. If Snape were here, he would tell him off for playing with his food, but too bad: he wasn’t.

‘Are you going to tell me where he’s gone?’ he asked, even though he already knew the answer.

‘He didn’t say,’ Kauko repeated. ‘He told us he’d probably be back this afternoon. Won’t you have more of your oatmeal?’

Harry groaned. Leeni passed him another banana to ruin. As he accepted, his eyes snagged on the magazine she was reading—it had just arrived by owl post this morning. The photographs showed potted flowers and twisting shoots, reaching out of the frames and pushing at the letters. It was all Finnish, he thought, because he couldn’t read it. But numbers were the same in every language, and there, at the top of the page—

‘What day is it?’

‘Oh, Wednesday.’

‘No, no, like, the date.’

‘July 31st,’ Leeni said without looking up.

Harry sagged in his seat. ‘It’s my birthday,’ he said, bewildered.

Kauko’s eyes widened. ‘Your birthday? Oh no, we had no idea—happy birthday, Harry.’

‘Yeah,’ he nodded, feeling lost. ‘I forgot.’

It wasn’t even as though he’d slept through it: he’d been _awake_ at midnight last night and he never made his wish, never did his ritual. It had slipped his mind entirely, and he found now that he didn’t even feel bad: he tried to imagine putting on his ordinary birthday celebration, sneaking around in the attic as the rest of the house slept below, and he could tell it would have felt horridly embarrassing. It had been a comfort once. Now, he’d only have felt pathetic.

It never would have crossed his mind last year, to think himself pathetic for this secret. He stared at his own hands. He felt like a stranger to himself.

He was vaguely aware Kauko had asked him a question. He replayed the sound in his head until he understood. ‘Oh, uhm, I don’t know. I don’t really do anything much for my birthday usually. I’m not a big birthday person, I guess.’

‘Neither am I,’ Kauko agreed.

‘I am,’ Leeni said. ‘I won’t be happy if we don’t celebrate.’

‘That’s true. We can do something small.’

Kauko and Leeni’s idea of small immediately diverged from Harry’s. They came up with countless activities to go and do, but Harry managed to convince them to stay and wait for Snape to come back; so they baked a birthday cake for him instead, swathed in chocolate and larger than the four of them could ever hope to finish. Leeni went through the cabinets until she unearthed an old box of firework candles to put in it.

Lunch was fresh trout and butternut squash. Harry’s stomach twisted with a strange anxiety, but the smell of the cake that was cooling on the counter served his overall mood, and he didn’t find the food nearly as revolting as he had breakfast. Every birthday, he’d thought he should have felt different, being an entirely new age and all, but today, he did genuinely feel it: new thoughts swirled in his mind, and when he’d looked in the hallway mirror, it was like looking at another boy.

Was it possible that Snape leaving without a word had something to do with his birthday? Harry didn’t suppose Snape knew when Harry’s birthday was in the first place; but Harry was sure he had mentioned at least that it was coming up, so maybe it wasn’t entirely incongruous that Snape might have asked Dumbledore about it, and then decided early this morning that he would get him something to mark the occasion. It was a long time to be picking a present, but then Snape would have had no idea what children liked: he _would_ need a while to get this sorted. Whatever he ended up bringing would likely be horrible anyway. Potions books, maybe, or like, a new stirring rod.

It wasn’t likely, Harry tried to remind himself. He shouldn’t be thinking about it.

They were just finishing up frosting the cake when blue light erupted from the corridor, and the sizzle of the fireplace unmistakeably announced Snape’s arrival. Harry licked his fingers clean and rushed to the back room, Leeni and Kauko on his tail.

Snape had circles under his eyes. His lips were peeling. It seemed he was the one who ended up not getting any sleep last night.

‘Everything alright?’ Leeni asked.

Snape seemed for a moment like he hadn’t understood the question. ‘Oh—yes. Yes, everything is fine. How’s—how are things here?’

This was a bizarre conversation. ‘We’re going to Korkia-Maura!’ Kauko’s enthused. Snape failed to hold in the wince. ‘Tell him what it is, Harry.’

‘Uh, it’s this cave, right? It’s on one of the islands, and it’s got ice inside that never melts, and you can get to this bit that has a lot of natural magic. So much they had to border it off from muggles.’

‘Exactly,’ Kauko praised, as if Harry were slow and needed a gold star for retaining any amount of knowledge. ‘It’s good you’re here, Harry wouldn’t leave without you.’

That made it sound significantly more embarrassing than it was, and like he was forcing Snape to come along. He scoured his mind. ‘No, it’s just because I wasn’t sure I could—I mean, you said the thing about the detention last night, but I didn’t really remember what we, uh, agreed on.’

Snape blinked at him. He was the one being slow today, Harry thought bitterly.

‘Well?’ he insisted. ‘Can I go?’

‘What? Yes, fine. Of course. I thought—’ he turned to Leeni. ‘I thought you had some business in town today.’

‘I did, but that was before we knew it’s Harry’s birthday.’

‘It’s Harry’s birthday?’ Snape repeated flatly, like he could not think of anything less exciting. ‘Oh, fantastic.’

Outrage boiled in Harry, hot and fast. He wasn’t disappointed that his birthday present theory turned out a fantasy, because that would have been pathetic; but he had every right to be angry about his birthday being treated like some horrible inconvenience.

‘You don’t have to come if you’ve got better things to do,’ he told him.

‘No,’ Snape ran a hand down his face. ‘No, of course I’ll come. Just let me change.’

They took the boat out. The water shimmered, parting easily for its pointed nose. The red-roofed houses by the port grew blurry with distance. Kauko paddled leisurely, but it was only for show: Leeni held her wand in hand, and the air around the tip was dense with magic.

The lake and the islands, and the views and the roof of white skies—Harry supposed that it was all fairly charming. He didn’t enjoy it. Snape was a tangle of tension next to him, staring into the distance like he’d seen something terribly interesting there, and the feeling seeped from him and into Harry until he wanted to scream with it. What did Snape have to be unhappy about anyway? Harry was the one whose birthday was being ruined.

‘Are you feeling well?’ Snape leaned across the space between them. Harry shuffled away: the sudden motion rocked the boat and Snape reflexively grabbed his shoulders to keep him still.

Harry shrugged his hands off. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

‘You’re being very quiet.’

‘What, is that not allowed?’

Snape sighed. Harry didn’t see that he had any right to be annoyed.

They left the boat on the pebbly shore, securing it to a log overgrown with kelp. Everything on the island was pushed tightly together, the trees and the moss and the scents of pine and rain. The earth squelched under Harry’s walking boots. Leeni had lent him those, transfigured into a smaller size; they were an awkward fit, though it had nothing to do with size and everything to do with knowing they’d belonged to her.

He felt the entrance to the cave before he spotted it amid the silver crags: it pulled at him as if he’d been secured to something deep within it with a piece of string. Leeni said no lights, because it was safer to get your eyes used to the dark, but Harry had little need for sight: he raised his legs to climb boulders and stepped around pointy pebbles like the ground itself had told him when. The others struggled more and called out to him to slow down, but he wouldn’t—the chill of the cave felt like feathers on his skin, the water that sloshed around with his every step like it was parting just for him. The dark walls were braided with white crystals, and the ice—the ice under his feet, over his head, it glinted a sunny sort of blue, deep and vivid and unbreakable.

He knew when he’d passed the ward set up against muggles, because it looked as though going straight through a wall of ice. But Harry didn’t even think about it, he strolled through at full speed and now he was getting closer, closer—the voices of the others dissipating among their own echoes—

Here. The magic rose around him, crisp and immediate. He normally liked to touch the ground with bare skin to best connect with natural magic, but there was no need for it here: he was breathing the magic in and out, and the idea that he might touch the wall right there, the cool stone—he was afraid it would be too much.

‘Harry!’

He was too overwhelmed to feel annoyed. ‘Huh?’

‘Do you mind?’ Snape was breathing hard. ‘Kauko’s nearly twisted her bloody ankle. Are you on this trip on your own?’

That was an obviously stupid question. ‘You didn’t have to chase me,’ he argued. ‘I was going to wait at the end.’

‘That is not the point—’

Leeni and Kauko emerged from behind the turn. Their trousers were stained with grime from the water, but they didn’t look nearly as annoyed as Snape did, their faces illuminated with awe.

‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ Kauko asked Harry. ‘And the magic, can you feel it?’

Harry nodded. Leeni had walked up to him and lain a hand on the wall; her eyes were closed, her face slack. Seeing her do it gave him courage.

The moment his palm made contact with the cold stone, he fell to his knees.

Water splashed around him. He was wet now and the temperature stood well below zero, but Harry felt perfectly warm.

‘It would be dangerous to try and do anything with this magic,’ Leeni told him, her eyes still closed. ‘It’s too potent, we would never be able to control it. But it’s very nice to feel.’

Harry tried to breathe through the sensation. He looked up to see Kauko watching him, a sad smile on her face. ‘Can you feel it?’ he asked, struggling to imagine how anyone might _not_.

‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘Definitely not like you feel it. I feel something, I’m just not sure if that’s what it is.’

‘What do you feel?’

‘It’s like—shivers, down my neck. In my head. And this—amazement—like there’s more space in me all of a sudden, inside my body,’ she chuckled awkwardly, glancing away. Harry had never seen her embarrassed before. ‘That doesn’t really make any sense, does it? I’m just impressed with the sights, I guess.’

‘No, no,’ he said quickly. ‘I think that’s it. Uh, maybe I can—do you want to take my hand?’

She looked over to Leeni, perhaps expecting her to interfere, but no protest came. She kneeled on the ice right next to Harry, uncaring for the water and the chill, and wrapped her fingers around his palm.

Harry bit his lip. The warm tickle in his right hand where it lay against the wall, the shimmer of pure air in his head, the largeness in his chest—he directed all of it into his left hand until the tips of his fingers went numb, and the pins and needles pressed and pulled at his palm so terribly he could barely take it.

Kauko drew in a sharp breath. She caught his eye and smiled.

‘That’s what it feels like to me, I guess,’ he said, a little shy. ‘So, if that’s what you felt, then that’s, you know, the right thing.’

Kauko drew her gaze away to meet Leeni’s eye. ‘Yes,’ she said, disbelieving. ‘That’s what I feel. Just less—less.’

They sat there, feeling it, for a good while, until they were run dry with it.

Leeni and Kauko got going first, swaying like drunks.

‘Will you show me?’

He glanced up at Snape, who’d extended an expectant hand. Harry scrambled up to stand, ignoring it entirely. Snape was a wizard, so surely he could feel the magic too: it was a question of degree, maybe, of some small difference in intensity. He wasn’t going to indulge him in something so pointless.

‘And why not?’

Harry shrugged. Perhaps once Snape decided to start sharing some info on his comings and goings, Harry might consider answering his questions again.

He started up the ice tunnel, anger brewing hotter with every step he took.

He heard the splashing of water behind him as Snape caught up.

‘Harry—’

‘What?’

‘ _What_? Well, for one, would you care to explain why you’re so upset with me?’

‘I’m not upset.’

Snape ignored him. ‘Is this all really because I forgot it was your birthday? Believe it or not, I had a few more pressing matters to occupy my mind—’

‘I don’t care if you remember my birthday, I’m not some little kid. It’s not even about that.’

‘What is it then?’

‘Nothing!’

‘If it is nothing, then I suggest you cease being unpleasant.’

Harry sped up. They were almost caught up to Leeni and Kauko, and the darkest corners of the cave were coming into focus again. He heard a bird trill in the distance. ‘If you thought I was so unpleasant, then you didn’t have to come,’ he spoke sharply. ‘You should just go away again and do whatever you want instead.’

‘Is that what this is about? Heavens, Potter, it was important that I met with the Headmaster. Today is the last day of the trial and we were discussing next steps. Alright?’

Harry paused. ‘What next steps? Do you know where I’m going to stay?’

Snape glanced up at Leeni and Kauko, who had stopped to wait, and were now listening with unconcealed interest. He swallowed. ‘We will discuss it when we get home.’

‘No, I want to discuss it now.’

‘And I do not. You will be perfectly fine waiting another hour.’

‘And why do you get to decide?’ Harry’s voice hitched. ‘It’s _my_ life! I want to know what’s going to happen to me!’

Snape disregarded him completely. He kept walking.

Harry ran ahead, then spun around so he was planted firmly in Snape’s way.

Rolling his eyes, Snape stepped to the side. So did Harry. With the boulders and the dropping walls, there wasn’t much room in the cave to manoeuvre.

‘Harry,’ Kauko said carefully. ‘Come on, let him through.’

‘No!’

‘I know this is frustrating, but we’re all wet and cold. Let’s just get home first, I’ll make both of you a cup of tea, we’ll have your cake. And then I’m sure Professor Snape is going to tell you everything—’

‘Oh, do not attempt to placate him,’ Snape snapped. His eyes bore into Harry, who returned the glare in full force. ‘He’s done nothing today to deserve the consideration.’

Kauko blistered. ‘I just think that maybe we should try not to ruin Harry’s birthday.’

‘If anyone’s ruining his birthday, it is Harry himself.’

‘No, it’s you!’ Harry shouted. His chest felt all wrong, like something had got stuck. ‘You’re the one ruining it!’

‘I very well might if you continue with this behaviour,’ Snape promised menacingly. ‘Now let me pass.’

‘I like standing here.’

‘Enough!’ Snape bellowed. ‘I do not care if you’re in a foul mood, you’re going to start controlling yourself. We have all taken the time out of our day and cancelled plans to bring you here, and you’ve been nothing but disagreeable—’

‘Shut up!’

Snape’s eyes widened. Harry knew he’d gone too far, but it was too late and now he had to stand his ground, even if it was pointless, even if he would never win and he should have just ignored Snape to begin with, and gone home—

‘Fine,’ Snape ground out. His eyes flicked again to Leeni and Kauko. Maybe he was gauging whether they were likely to come to Harry’s aid if he decided to strangle him. ‘Since you must know, I have asked the Headmaster to name me your guardian. Should he win the trial, you will come stay with me provided that is something you want. Though your behaviour now certainly suggests otherwise.’

Harry took a breath. Then another.

‘Stay with—’ he breathed again. They were coming in too close one after the other, he thought. ‘You asked him?’

‘Yes.’

‘But—really? And he said yes?’

‘Provided that it is something you wish to do, yes.’ He drew his eyes away from Harry, then back, like he was bracing himself. ‘Well, do you?’

‘I—I don’t know—’

Snape hunched in front of him, which made it more difficult to avoid his gaze. He was getting water on his trousers, Harry thought.

‘Look,’ he said brusquely. ‘I realise that I am not—I am not particularly good at this. But I can promise you that I will do my best to learn. I have grown to be—very fond of you, and it would make me happy if you accepted.’

This was all so wrong. He wanted to run away and keep running until his legs fell off. ‘But what about—I mean, you’re supposed to pretend you’re a Death Eater, aren’t you? So, won’t they realise that you’re not anymore if I start living with you?’

‘They most likely will,’ Snape agreed. ‘But this is more important.’

Then, Harry started crying.

‘I’m—I’m sorry I yelled at you—’

‘It’s alright,’ Snape clearly didn’t know what to do with his hands, rubbing at Harry’s shoulders and back and neck like he was a cat whose petting spots he hadn’t figured out yet. ‘Harry, I said it’s alright, there’s no need to cry—’

Harry chose to escape the weird ministrations by pressing himself as close as possible. Snape swayed on the heels of his feet at the momentum, one hand finding the ground for support. Harry hoped he wouldn’t think to touch him with it: it was all filthy now.

‘I want to,’ he muttered into Snape’s shoulder.

‘You want to cry?’

‘No, not that,’ he whispered. ‘The other thing.’

‘You want to stay with me?’

He nodded.

Snape’s breath was warm on Harry’s ear.

‘Alright,’ he said.

The boat skittered over waves on their way back, the breeze full of sun and mosquito swarms. Harry killed one that was trying to bite into him through the fabric of his shorts, another on his head, one more on his left knee. He got one on the back of Snape’s neck, too, though he might have slapped a little too enthusiastically—Snape’s answering jerk rocked the whole boat, like some strange déjà vu.

Harry patted him where he’d struck to apologise, which Snape found funny, until he realised the mosquito had already started drinking and his neck was stained with blood that Harry was rubbing all over the place. He hitched up his sleeve to reach into the water and ladle some up to wash it off.

As he did, Harry caught a glimpse of the black tattoo on pale skin. Before he could think about it, he reached out to touch—not the tattoo itself, he’d tried that before and it hadn’t gone well, but the forearm around it.

He’d expected Snape to tell him off, but he let Harry pull the hand into his lap and stayed still through the examination, not saying anything. The skin around the tattoo was smooth, untainted, normal. The fingers curled reflexively when Harry ran a digit over a sensitive spot. He pressed on a jutting vein, satisfied when it popped back up as he let go.

‘You’re not going to work for him anymore then?’ he asked. ‘Not even pretend.’

‘No.’

He should feel guilty about that, about Snape giving up something like that. Hadn’t he said that he needed to do it to make up for the bad things he’d done in his life? Harry was so selfish.

‘The Prophet said I’m the new Dark Lord,’ he remembered. ‘So, now you can just serve me instead. It’s much nicer.’

He flipped Snape’s hand round to look at his knuckles next. The skin here was just a little loose, and he could slide it back and forth over the cartilages. His eyes were fixed on the hand, not on Snape, but he could feel his gaze on Harry’s cheek. He squirmed: it felt like being tickled, or burnt, or something else really uncomfortable.

‘You’re looking at me weird,’ he complained.

‘My apologies,’ Snape said smoothly. ‘I suppose I should be lowering my eyes before my new master.’

Harry snorted and pulled at Snape’s arm, turning on the bench until he had his back on him. This way, he could still play with the hand, but Snape couldn’t stare at his face like it was so very interesting.

After that, it was as if the whole world were a fog. Harry went through the motions: he helped tie up the boat, he set out plates for dessert, he licked some of the cream that had dripped onto the cake platter. But through it all, he couldn’t think about anything. It was like trying to focus in a dream. Leeni lit the firework candle and it spit sparkles into the air that Harry could see long after they went off, every time he closed his eyes.

Kauko had pressed some traditional candles into the soft cake too, and they sagged and dripped wax on the cream. When he blew, Harry wished for Snape not to change his mind.

Halfway through his slice, he realised maybe he should have checked with Snape before he started eating because of how he’d acted in Korkia-Maura. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to be having cake—that was a thing, wasn’t it? He glanced at him now, but Snape only smiled when he caught Harry’s eye, and told him he had chocolate on his nose. It was actually chocolate whipped cream, and Harry wiped it off with a napkin. He resolved to remember to check with Snape next time about things like that—and other things, all manner of things, to be safe—because he was not going to make any mistakes if he could help it.

Kauko gave him another slice after he’d finished the first one. Snape informed him he was going to make himself sick if he had it, which Harry knew very well.

‘No, I’m not,’ he said, but didn’t pick up the fork in case Snape did feel strongly about this.

‘Shall we split it?’

Harry nodded. He chuckled nervously when he lifted half of the slice to put on Snape’s offered plate and it crumbled, cream dripping on Snape’s fingers. He hated that he was being so awkward all of a sudden, with no reason: it was as though some switch in him was being flicked there and back.

‘You know, Harry,’ Kauko said, in the tone she used when she could tell he was embarrassed. It only made him more embarrassed when she did that. ‘His heart is clearly set on this, so I think you should negotiate a little. How about: yes, I will come live with you, but only if I can have all the chocolate cake I like?’

Harry gave another awful chuckle that sounded like he was five. He was staring at his cream-stained napkin.

‘Or how about, only if you give me top marks on every Potions exam from now on,’ she grinned. Snape was glaring at her, but only in a joking way; it seemed everyone except Harry was enjoying this. ‘Or maybe: only if you buy me a dog.’

That reminded him. ‘Wait, can I bring my owl?’

‘Of course,’ Snape said, then turned to Kauko. ‘And _you_ would do well to remember that as opposed to some, Harry is not in fact an opportunistic middle-aged hag.’

‘Oh!’ Kauko laughed. ‘This is too much fun though, Severus.’

‘You have an owl?’ Leeni butted in before Snape could answer.

‘Yeah,’ Harry forced himself to smile. ‘Her name’s Hedwig. Hagrid bought me her for my birthday last year. Hagrid’s the, uhm, the gatekeeper at Hogwarts. He’s my friend.’

What would Hagrid say when Harry told him he was living with Snape? What would Ron and Hermione? Snape had said if the trial today went well, they might be going back to Britain as early as tomorrow, but Harry probably wouldn’t see them until the beginning of the school year. It seemed impossible that he would have been living with Snape a full month by then. All of this was just too weird for words.

‘I hope you realise you _will_ be getting a birthday present,’ Snape spoke in a low voice. Harry had the distinct impression this was expressly so that Kauko wouldn’t overhear. ‘It will simply need to be late.’

Harry had already got a present as far as he was concerned, and it was so good it made his mind all foggy and his heart beat like a hammer even as he sat. But if Snape wanted to buy him a new stirring rod on top of that, who was Harry to stop him.

The skies clouded over. Rain pattered against the sills. Leeni brewed a pot of herbal tea that burned Harry’s throat. Dumbledore was supposed to come the moment that the trial was over. What were they even talking about for so long?

It would only feel real, Harry thought, once it was official, once Dumbledore had confirmed it. Well. Maybe. It might not feel real in any case; but at least Harry wouldn’t be sick with anxiety and excess cake anymore.

Later, they moved to the drawing room to be closer to the fireplace. Snape sat in the armchair, elbows and knees at right angles, tight-lipped and silent. Kauko brought out some old albums to show Harry what Inari looked like in winter; he didn’t really care, but it was a good enough distraction.

‘I bet you don’t get this much snow in Britain,’ she whispered into his ear. Harry shook his head. His foot was tapping wildly against the carpet. Leeni kicked at it, only gently, which made him slow down at least.

‘It’ll be kind of sad to go back,’ he said, though what he meant was, _I’ll miss you._

Kauko put an arm around his back. She smelled like coal and wet earth. ‘No, it will be exciting. You’ll see your friends again, your owl. And you’ll move into a new house. I bet you can convince Severus to give up the master bedroom if you try.’

Harry shrugged. ‘Yeah, but this was the best summer I’ve ever had. And the best birthday.’

Kauko made a cooing sound that would have embarrassed him if he weren’t feeling so sad.

He didn’t want to be sad on what could well be his last night here, so when Leeni smiled at him, he forced a grin. ‘Maybe I’ll become a fugitive again next year. What’s a good crime?’

Snape glared at him from his armchair.

‘How about if you—’

Harry slapped his hand squarely over Kauko’s mouth.

‘No, don’t tell me now when he’s looking!’

Her eyes creased with laughter. She peeled his fingers off.

‘Come here,’ she commanded. He leaned in so she could whisper into his ear. She wasn’t saying anything at all, just nonsense, but he made an appropriately scheming face. ‘What do you think?’

‘That’s good,’ he agreed. ‘Or maybe I could—’

They whispered back and forth like that, until at last Harry’s ear grew numb and he started feeling bad for laughing at Snape so much. He slipped off the sofa and wandered over to the armchair to give him a little pat on the chest, like he had before on the boat, hoping it might amuse him again. It did.

‘Are you cold?’ Snape asked, laying a hand over Harry’s exposed forearm. ‘You’re shivering.’

Harry shook his head, then nodded. He wasn’t cold, but he was. He felt first and foremost like he had something important he needed to be doing but couldn’t think what, and it was making him lose his mind.

Snape hesitated, then pulled Harry up to sit in his lap, pushing against the floor with his foot to angle the armchair toward the fire. Harry fidgeted and squirmed at first, feeling decidedly strange—he’d sat in Snape’s lap before, back on the minibus, but it had been purely pragmatic then, and also he was fairly sure he’d had heatstroke. But this was warm as well as odd, and soon, that became the more important thing. Snape’s arms were heavy, too, pinning Harry’s to his sides, which made shivering significantly more difficult, and eventually his body seemed to give it up.

‘Are you happy?’ Harry asked.

Snape exhaled into his hair, making him jerk. It tickled. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m happy.’

Harry was too, he decided, despite everything odd and wrong. He felt like he had back in the cave, and earlier than that, in Berlin as the sun rose through the mist, and every minute he lay in the garden in Zakopane, and strolling up Korenlei at night—like everywhere on his body tingled with warmth. Like there was suddenly more room inside him, stretching out and out until he felt that familiar prickling in his fingers. It didn’t make much sense: his feet weren’t even touching the ground. He couldn’t be sure, because this wasn’t anything that Leeni had ever taught him, but he thought that if he asked the magic to push at the armchair they sat in and then catch them as they fell, he would get his wish.

Then, the fireplace roared blue and Dumbledore stepped through. He wasn’t smiling.

Snape stiffened behind Harry, arms dropping to his sides. ‘Who’s won?’

‘No one,’ Dumbledore said. ‘The jury decided neither myself nor the Ministry will be able to adequately see to Harry’s needs. They will instead form a committee that will make any decisions on Harry’s care collectively.’

‘What does that mean?’ Harry’s voice came out shrill.

‘It means that if all goes well and I am awarded a place on that committee, I will have a say in where you are placed, Harry. Even if any of those we worried might wish you ill manage to secure a seat, they should not be able to achieve the majority they’d need to place you anywhere unsafe. But equally, should I put forward the motion of placing you anywhere that might be _construed_ as unsafe, I will not achieve that majority.’

Harry didn’t understand.

‘Out,’ someone was pushing at his shoulders. Snape. The mental fog was back, making it difficult to see or hear what he was being told. ‘Out, get him out of the room, now.’

They did. Harry never even tried to stop them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhm, so... I'm sorry? I hope you've enjoyed the fluff, because the next chapter is a real angst-fest :/
> 
> Thank you for all your comments and kudos. See you Saturday!


	27. Twenty-Six: Inari to Hogwarts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He leaned forward over his knees, like a man punched in the stomach. His arms trembled. He had the paranoid sense that the skull in the Dark Mark was looking at him, that it was pleased. The last twenty-four hours had been a web of poor choices, but here, on his arm, here was the poorest of them all: repulsive, resentful, never satisfied._

**Twenty-Six: Inari to Hogwarts**

Albus was fighting to keep the words in, Severus could tell. But, like a lit fuse, they were coming, now or later—and Severus would prefer them now. So, he pushed.

‘You will not have full control over what happens to the boy. That must be a blow to your ego, but it is hardly—’

‘Hardly what, Severus?’ Albus turned on him, eyes alight with flame. ‘Hardly the worst conclusion to this farce, perhaps. But should a war come prematurely, should extreme and immediate measures need to be taken, I will be left helpless—though I suppose you have made it quite plain you do not care about the war, so I am likely wasting my breath—’

‘I have _never_ said so—’

‘Let us return to what you _do_ care about, then! If I put your name forward as guardian, the committee will naturally wish to look into your background. And they need only look at the first file from the top of the stack to conclude no one in their right mind would give you the child.’

‘ _You_ ’ve told me I could have him—’

‘Clearly, I am not of sound mind, am I then, Severus? To have watched you go against me in such a way, and then forgive it all? None of this would have happened had you not brought down the wards at Privet Drive, shedding doubt on my very ability to determine the safest placement for the boy!’

‘If I hadn’t brought the wards down, you would have sent him _back_!’

‘You purport to care for the boy’s comfort, Severus, and yet you promise him again things that are not yours to give. It has never crossed my mind that you would be so thoughtless as to tell him until the trial was concluded.’

‘That is entirely beside the point—’

But it wasn’t. Through the shock and the anger, through the tightening of his throat every time Albus raised his voice, through the sweat breaking out on his face, Severus felt the weight of what has happened descend on him, the sum of the choices he had made, each a mistake, a miscalculation, selfish and stupid and disastrous—he couldn’t breathe.

‘I could still—I could still go to Lucius,’ he managed, half to himself, not really knowing what he was saying; he needed this to stop, he needed Albus to fix it, and if not Albus, then he was going to have to fix it himself. ‘If I tell him what you—perhaps he could appeal. If the Ministry uncovers the abuse, the jury might reconsider who has the boy’s best interests in mind.’

He couldn’t look Albus in the eye.

‘You would do that, Severus?’ he asked softly, and it cut deeper than anything he’d said before. ‘You would put the future of the wizarding world at risk, just so you could have your fantasy?’

He didn’t answer.

He heard him walk across the room, until the steps fell off in the doorway. He would have had one hand on the door jamb, wanting to leave but unable: Severus knew the feeling.

‘If you wish to take the reins, Severus,’ he said, ‘then you must learn to take some responsibility.’

Severus was alone after that. The fire grew duller by the minute; it needed feeding. No one in their right mind would give him the child. They shouldn’t, either: what on Earth had he been thinking, to promise the boy a home with no guarantee he could deliver? There’d been an _if_ to the promise, of course, but it had been a specious _if_ that went unheard and unacknowledged. Perhaps he’d known all along he couldn’t deliver. Perhaps he’d selfishly wanted to play at it for a while, like Harry’s pretend game of servants. Perhaps he’d done this knowing and regardless. Perhaps that was who he was, in the end.

He leaned forward over his knees, like a man punched in the stomach. His arms trembled. He had the paranoid sense that the skull in the Dark Mark was looking at him, that it was pleased. The last twenty-four hours had been a web of poor choices, but here, on his arm, here was the poorest of them all: repulsive, resentful, never satisfied. If he hadn’t taken it, he could have kept his promises. That night he’d told Lucius yes, that dinner when he sat next to Valerian, the day he first allowed Lamotte to smile at him—they had taken everything from him and they would take it again and over, for the rest of his life, and of course this new fantasy was just that, just as Albus had understood. Just like Lily, it was nothing, it was a fairy tale, it was a story he told himself to fall asleep at night. A fool duped by his own lie.

The doorstep creaked under a new weight: lighter than Albus, more hesitant. Severus was surprised Leeni and Kauko had managed to restrain him that long.

‘Sit down,’ he told the boy, dread like a hot mass straining against the confines of his chest.

The sofa gave a whine. This was the time to take responsibility.

He couldn’t do it.

‘I can’t stay with you, can I?’

His voice was soft as the flutter of eyelashes. It near doubled Severus down.

‘No,’ he said. ‘You can’t.’

He forced himself to look at him. The boy gave a nod, like Severus had just told him the time.

‘You have to understand that—’

‘No, don’t explain. It doesn’t matter.’ He shrugged. ‘I knew it would never actually happen anyway.’

He said it without any feeling at all, breezy business, eyes limber.

And then, he folded over himself, hid his face between his knees, clutched at his stomach, and started crying.

Severus moved to the sofa, unsteady on his own feet. He reached out to rub his back, stroke his hair, something, disgusted with himself—he had no right at all to come near him, but—

The boy jerked away.

‘Don’t touch me!’ he shouted. Screamed.

‘I’m sorry,’ Severus said hollowly. It meant nothing.

Harry swallowed his next sob. ‘I have to use the bathroom,’ he announced.

Severus followed him out of the room, his own measured steps like an affront to the rushed panic of Harry’s sprint. The bathroom door banged shut, the lock clicked. He could hear the boy through the wood, sliding onto the tile, shuffling into himself, trying and failing to smother the sobs in the folds of his shirt. Severus sat on the first stair, with a good view of the bathroom door, and listened mindlessly as the boy drove himself to hysterics.

Another door screeched. Voices drifted through the house, then footsteps. They seemed to him to have come from some other world. Albus was probably leaving. Severus tried to find it in himself to care.

He’d stopped a foot away, in the shadow of the armoire.

‘Do you know when they might decide on where to send him?’ Severus asked him dully.

‘Hopefully, they will have staffed the committee by the end of the week. I will push for sending Harry to the Weasleys as an interim measure—it should be easy enough to secure as much.’

Severus nodded, like a man under Imperius. ‘Good.’

‘Bring Harry back to Hogwarts tomorrow morning. I will speak with him then.’

Severus nodded again.

Some time after Albus left, Harry emerged from the bathroom, red-faced and wrung out. He pushed past Severus without sparing him a glance, then hid away upstairs. Severus considered reassuming watch by the ladder to the attic, but then Kauko came and told him to go wait in the kitchen, so he did.

Leeni stayed with him, demonstrably to keep him company but demonstrably poor at it: she read her magazine, she sipped her tea, she ignored his turmoil and his silent presence. The radio wheezed its tunes, each of them entirely wrong in the circumstances. The sun dipped, and dipped some more, and finally fell into the lake. Mosquitoes buzzed above the leftover chocolate cake, drying at the edges.

Kauko came down a few times over the course of the night. She never said anything and she never looked at Severus. Or was it that Severus didn’t look at her? She would fetch whatever it was she’d come for: a glass of water, a slice of cake, an extra blanket or some tea or a cold compress, and then disappear back into the darkness of the house, where Severus couldn’t go.

He thought this must have been the longest night of his life, rivalled perhaps only by the night when Lily died. He’d thought it, and then suddenly dawn was breaking: in Inari, even the deepest despair could not keep out the sun.

It became obvious now that they were not going to sleep at all, so Leeni made coffee. Severus didn’t think he could swallow it.

She looked at him, and said, ‘He’s going to be alright.’

It didn’t sound like empty comfort. It sounded like certitude, and it chipped at something in Severus. A sob broke free. The next one was only a breath, wheezed and dry. Leeni said nothing else, after that.

Just after eight, Severus went up to his bedroom. He brushed his teeth, he showered, he shaved and dressed. Because he hadn’t slept, it was as though yesterday had never ended. He’d never given much thought to those infernal questions of the afterlife—the whole matter was impractical at best—but if he were to imagine purgatory, this would be it: a torment unbroken by sleep, a single day that never ceased.

He packed his clothes, he ordered the borrowed books and magazines on the windowsill, he stripped the bed. He was perfectly methodical about it, as he should be. He was unlikely to ever return here and he wished to touch everything this final time.

He folded the Invisibility Cloak and placed Harry’s wand on top of it. Voices and the hums and sizzles of breakfast ministrations drifted up from the kitchen. He could not eat if he tried, but perhaps he could step in for a moment to give Harry his things back.

He went downstairs. He couldn’t bring himself to enter the kitchen. Instead, he placed the cloak and wand on the coffee table by the fireplace, and sat in the same armchair he’d sat in before. He waited. He thought of nothing.

They joined him maybe twenty minutes later. There were circles under the boy’s eyes, deep and sickly green. Severus wondered if he’d slept any. He unfastened the knapsack they’d bought him in Zakopane, leather clasps against brown canvas, buckles glinting golden in the light of the ready fire. He deposited the cloak and the wand inside, and slung it back over his shoulder—just the one, careless, unbothered. He didn’t say a word.

‘Thank you for having us,’ Severus said, and it sounded horrible.

Leeni shook Severus’s hand, then Harry’s. Kauko hugged the boy, so tight his hands tightened reflexively on the straps of his knapsack as he struggled to breathe. Severus hadn’t expected her to acknowledge him, but then she did look, and though she didn’t embrace him, she smiled—that felt horrible, too.

Then, Harry’s knuckles were scraping against the bottom of the Floo bowl, and he was stepping into the fire.

‘Hogwarts, Professor Dumbledore’s office,’ he said clearly.

Severus watched as the flames rose around him, then pulled back. With a final look at the room, he followed.

Sun spilled over the cherry wood desk, swirled around glints of golden instruments, and dappled over Albus’s deep purple robes. The boy was sat already in the chair opposite, straight-backed, his knapsack tucked politely in his lap.

‘—that this must have been a challenging night,’ Albus was saying. He didn’t spare a single glance at Severus. ‘And for that, I am truly sorry. You have every right to feel anger or despair, Harry, and do not take what I am about to say as a suggestion to smother all feeling. But I have lived a long time now, and I have been shown over and again that sometimes, it is the moments when we are denied that ultimately lead to great fulfilment. The seeds of our victories lie in our defeats.’

The boy nodded, then proclaimed, solemn, ‘Life is a highway.’

Severus nearly choked on the snort. Harry didn’t look.

‘Well put, Harry,’ Albus praised, entirely ignorant. ‘Shall we discuss, then, the road you’ll take now?’

‘Okay. Does Professor Snape need to be here?’

Through the night, he had felt tired and miserable and angry, but not once sleepy. Now, it finally hit him: the nail to his coffin. His heart seized, his breathing hitched, it was done, now, it was over. He could sleep.

‘I will leave you to it,’ he forced himself to say. ‘Good day, Headmaster.’

Then, he fled, and he drank, and he slept like the dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :((((  
> We've only got one proper chapter and then the epilogue to go! After some consideration, I've decided to publish them both together on Wednesday-- so, we're nearly done! I promise the last two installments aren't quite as angst-heavy as this one ;)


	28. Twenty-Seven: Hogwarts to the Burrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Talking about his album had reignited an old sadness, and he nursed it in the cupped hands he’d slid underneath the jumper for warmth. He thought sometimes he’d rather never have seen the pictures, so he wouldn’t feel bad for losing them. Or that he’d rather never have heard stories of his parents, so he wouldn’t have to walk around in the drizzle, looking for a tortoise that was long dead._

**Twenty-Seven: Hogwarts to the Burrow**

‘Want more tea, ‘Arry?’

Harry shook his head, but it didn’t matter, because Hagrid was already pouring. The weather was damp and unpleasant, the skies overcast; he warmed his hands in the steam that burst from his mug.

He’d seen Hagrid almost every day since he’d got back to Hogwarts, so he supposed the silence was only natural: everything they could have said, they’d said already over this past week. Except for that one thing he’d not been able to push past his throat, even if it was stupid.

‘Ah, I’ll miss having ya ‘ere,’ Hagrid sank back into his armchair. ‘Long way still ‘till start of school. But it’ll be good for you, better than being stuck ‘ere all on your lonesome.’

‘I’m not lonesome,’ Harry lied. ‘You keep me company.’

‘Eh, it’s not the same. What time are ya leaving?’

‘Five.’

‘You excited?’

Harry nodded, even though he wasn’t. He should be. He’d see Ron, he’d see the twins, and Mrs Weasley had been very nice to him back at the platform. It was probably only that he’d slept so little: he’d tossed and turned and thought about nonsense, and then once he’d finally lost awareness, he’d dreamed that he’d wet the bed and woke up shivering. He hadn’t actually wet the bed. For a moment, he’d even felt proud: like that was some sort of victory, something to celebrate.

He’d bothered Hagrid long enough, he knew: it wasn’t polite to hang around indefinitely just because he was anxious. He took a breath to brace himself. ‘Uh, Hagrid, do you remember—do you remember the album you gave me?’

‘Sure, I remember.’

‘Well, I—when I was abroad, did you read about how the Aurors came after me in Berlin? So, when that happened, my knapsack fell off, because I was running, and I lost it. The album. I’m sorry.’

He bit his lip as he waited. He was too afraid to look at him: even the tiniest sign of disappointment from Hagrid and he knew he was going to cry.

‘Ah, that’s too bad. But don’t ya worry, ‘Arry, alright? Gimme a couple o’ weeks and I’ll get you a new one, won’t I? Just need to write some letters, get some more copies.’

‘Yeah,’ Harry said, wiping his eyes. He felt angry with himself now, for ever thinking that _Hagrid_ would be angry. ‘Thank you.’

He left soon after that, but instead of going back to Gryffindor Tower, he wandered the grounds. He knew that the flash of movement he was watching for, he would never see: there were predators around, and plants that were probably poisonous to tortoises, and even if he did find it, what would he do with it? He couldn’t take it with him to the Weasleys without asking. But none of it mattered; it was nice to imagine, and Harry was bored.

He’d taken his jumper off at Hagrid’s but pulled it back on now: only August, and yet last month’s heat was already edging off. He sniffled, nose full of the dew that hung in the air. Maybe if he found the tortoise, he could give it to Professor Snape, as long as he first solicited a promise that he wouldn’t chop it up for potions ingredients. They probably made some brews with tortoise brains or some such thing—anything remotely disgusting seemed to work well in potions.

Talking about his album had reignited an old sadness, and he nursed it in the cupped hands he’d slid underneath the jumper for warmth. He thought sometimes he’d rather never have seen the pictures, so he wouldn’t feel bad for losing them. Or that he’d rather never have heard stories of his parents, so he wouldn’t have to walk around in the drizzle, looking for a tortoise that was long dead. That the whole summer hadn’t happened, because then it would never be over. He even wished, and he was ashamed of it, that he’d never received his Hogwarts letter, that he was back in Privet Drive now, ceiling trembling as Dudley thudded down the stairs. It was all very stupid.

‘Have you lost something?’

Harry’s head snapped up. He hadn’t even seen Snape approach, and it wasn’t as though the open grounds had many shadowed nooks for sneaking about.

‘No,’ he said. He hadn’t really seen Snape around this week, not since the day they’d got back from Inari, and he knew that was entirely his own fault for being weird.

‘Your arms, perhaps? You seem to be missing those.’

Harry quickly wrenched his hands from under the jumper. It had been a joke, but he hadn’t even smiled, which made it awkward. And he could tell, because Snape was looking away and clearing his throat.

Harry balled his hands into fists. He wanted desperately for him to go away, and he wanted more not to want that.

‘I’m looking for Harold,’ he explained, hoping a little that Snape might laugh and then Harry could take offense.

‘May I look with you?’

He wanted to say no, but he couldn’t say no. Snape clearly didn’t care either way, because he’d matched his stride with Harry’s before he’d managed to form any sort of answer.

‘What have you been up to today?’

‘I was at Hagrid’s.’

‘I see. And yesterday?’

‘Packing. And I went to see Hagrid.’

Snape gave him a beat to elaborate, but if Harry did that, it might encourage him hanging around.

‘How about the day before that?’

Harry almost smiled. ‘Hagrid’s.’

‘I see.’

The plan had backfired, Harry realised, because now he could sense that Snape was embarrassed, and that meant Harry felt embarrassed for him, and it was altogether horrible. ‘I met with Professor Dumbledore, too,’ he remembered. ‘Just to talk about natural magic.’

‘Did you learn anything interesting?’

He gave a shrug. ‘Different kinds of stuff.’

That was apparently the end of Snape’s tether. ‘How informative,’ he scoffed ugly, which made Harry feel very small.

He had actually learnt some very interesting things. They’d talked about how different emotions had magic, too, and that’s why places where a lot of blood had been spilled in a war, or where a lot of people had celebrated in the past, they held magic, too. Dumbledore thought that Harry’s mum had used natural magic that night that she’d saved him from Voldemort, and that she drew it from love, which was a bit hard for Harry to understand, since normally he had to touch the ground or the water or a rock or something to access natural magic, and you couldn’t very well touch a thing like _love_. But Dumbledore had a theory that maybe this was why Harry had this talent for natural magic: that it came from being exposed to so much of it when he was a baby, since it took a lot of magic to prevent the killing curse. Dumbledore had said he wasn’t sure this was what had actually happened, but Harry had already made up his mind: that _was_ what had happened. He said so.

He could tell Snape that, he supposed. What had happened with the guardianship, that wasn’t even Snape’s fault, and Harry had no right to be angry or anything. Not that he was anymore. He was just—he felt shy, and off-kilter, and when he remembered the things he used to talk with Snape about just over a week ago, the things he used to _do_ with Snape there to see—he wanted to squirm with shame.

‘Sorry I’m being so quiet,’ he whispered. ‘I don’t really feel like talking.’

He didn’t look up at Snape. He hadn’t looked at his face once since he’d found him here.

‘That’s alright,’ he heard him say. ‘In any case, we should focus our mental capacities on the tortoise search.’

So they did, for quite a while, until the chill let go off Harry’s skin as it warmed with motion, and the sun peeked out from behind the gloom. It painted silver threads around the edges of the darkest clouds, and rushed toward the ground to glimpse off the lake, so strong it made Harry’s eyes and head hurt.

He decided to lead them there, thinking that tortoises needed to drink, too, and also because the shimmers in the black water looked rather glorious. The boulders on shore were wet with rain and slimy with kelp, but he could tell that hanks of magic run through them, and when he climbed one, he felt a swell of energy even through the soles of his shoes. Part of it probably had nothing to do with magic, he thought: it was nice to look down at Snape, and nice to climb.

It wasn’t the best vantage point for spotting tortoises, but he had Snape for that now, so instead he concentrated on finding the best crannies and flats where to place his foot next, arms thrown wide for balance. He couldn’t go too fast: his shoes were already coated with grime, and they slid and squeaked dangerously on the stone.

‘Is there something wrong with your teeth that you would rather be rid of them?’ Snape asked him, audibly unhappy. ‘I don’t understand what’s lacking about solid ground.’

‘It’s boring,’ Harry explained. He’d intended to get down, actually, but now that Snape had complained, he wouldn’t anymore if he could help it.

After they’d got back to Hogwarts, Harry had thought he would never be able to come near Snape again. He’d even considered asking Dumbledore— _begging_ Dumbledore to let him drop Potions. It wouldn’t have been much of a loss, it’s not like he learned anything in that class, and anyway, would it be very safe for him to be in among all that fire and fumes when he might spontaneously lose it and start crying for no reason? He’d cried over a hole in his sock just the other day, and it wasn’t normal tears, it was disgusting, rocking-back-and-forth, snotty hysterics that made his stomach hurt and his cheeks burn.

But maybe he could do it. He didn’t feel particularly like crying now, did he? Maybe he could just look at it differently, maybe he could just focus on—

It was like this: Harry had been afraid no one would ever want him, and now, someone had wanted him, even if it was just for that one day. It still hadn’t mattered in the end. But someone _had_ wanted him.

It was the same as missing people: it felt awful to miss Ron and Hermione, to fear if they missed him back and if it would be the same when they saw each other again. But it had been more awful before, back when he hadn’t ever missed anyone at all.

He measured the distance in his head and jumped, skipping two smaller boulders to land directly on the next one, the sharp peak digging painfully into his foot through the flimsy trainer.

‘Harry!’

It hadn’t been that big a jump, even, but Snape still sounded outraged. Harry grinned.

‘Do you want to see something?’

Snape crossed his arms. ‘If this something involves a cracked skull, then not particularly.’

‘No, it’s nothing like that. But you have to step back.’

‘Certainly not.’

‘It’s safe, really. But you can’t be too close.’

‘That is what leads me to assume it is most assuredly _not_ safe.’

Harry groaned. ‘Come on! Trust me. Just a step back.’

Very put-out, Snape took a tiny step.

‘One more.’

‘You said one step.’

‘Yeah, one normal step, not one fake step.’

Once he was satisfied that Snape stood an appropriate distance away, he looked him in the eye: he absolutely _had to_ see his face.

‘Ready?’

‘No,’ Snape said.

Then, through the soles of his trainers, through his feet and up his legs, Harry pulled the magic high and tight, and then the magic pulled him, and he was falling backward, straight onto the pointed rocks.

Snape leaped forward, hands grasping and eyes wild with shock—but before he could reach him, Harry thought to himself, _I want to be caught._

And the magic rose around him, and caught him, and placed him gently back on his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your sweet and/or furious comments on the last chapter. There's been a lot going on on my end and I haven't had a chance to sit down and reply to them, but will hopefully get to it soon!
> 
> Click through for the epilogue!


	29. Epilogue: Hogwarts to Cokeworth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _On Monday afternoon, Severus went home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the second chapter today - make sure you've not missed the previous one!

**Epilogue: Hogwarts to Cokeworth**

On Monday afternoon, Severus went home.

Spinner’s End was as he’d left it: sediment on the bottom of the bottle. He unpacked his things in the bedroom, marking how the sheets were worn thread-thin, how he needed new ones—every time, he told himself he’d go out and get them, and then he didn’t. In the wardrobe, he found his favourite jumper that could no longer be worn outside the house, and a funnel from a moth in the sleeve.

He’d moved into his parents’ master years ago; his childhood bedroom was a place for boxes of memories and gathering dust. He went there next. His nose tickled as he took it all in: the dirt kicked into corners, the peeling wallpaper, the creaking mattress. How could he ever have thought to bring a child here?

But it was inescapable: he saw him now in every corner, running down the rickety stairs, straining to wrench open the door to the fridge, laughing awkwardly when told you had to shove at the TV to turn it on. The shame of it followed Severus into room after room. The deficiencies of the house had always registered, but never ached; he could barely sit still now, among this proof of inadequacy.

Shortly after lunch, which Severus made but forgot to eat, the Floo blazed purple. It had to be Albus—who else—but Albus _never_ came to Severus. Severus came to him; this was how things were.

It was Albus. He sat him down in the study, the only room furnished in the last decade, and brewed him a pot of tea, grateful to have found two cups without chipped edges even if they hadn’t come from the same set. He dug through the kitchen cabinets, too, until he’d located a cheap box of chocolates he’d half-forgotten; they’d grown over with white coating and lost their sheen, but it was too dark in the study to tell.

If the boy were here, Severus would have chocolate in his kitchen bought in this century.

‘Thank you, Severus.’

He gave a sharp nod.

They had barely spoken over the past few weeks. Severus had supposed they would continue in this manner until the beginning of the school year, or possibly longer than. Until he died of shame, maybe.

‘Harry seems to be doing well.’

No preamble, then.

‘Hm.’

‘Molly Weasley tells me he’s been spending most of his time catching up on quidditch. No broken bones yet.’

Severus had a chocolate. It was nougat; it tasted better than it looked.

‘In other news,’ Albus pressed on, tone painfully easy, ‘the final seat on the committee has been filled. I suppose the delay was due to Lucius—he fought for it quite voraciously. But eventually, he had to be denied due to his, ah—history.’

A spasm of tension shot through Severus’s left arm. ‘Who is it then?’ he asked, though he didn’t really care.

‘Quentin Lamotte.’

Severus snorted. Albus caught his eye, his face alit with amusement as though this was a joke they shared. Severus felt immediately the compulsion to explain himself, to allow him in on it.

‘Well, that won’t be much of an issue,’ he said shortly. ‘He’ll bore of it within the month.’

Albus nodded. He kept his gaze on him. ‘How are you faring, Severus?’

Severus looked away.

‘How do you expect?’ he asked, voice tight with mockery.

‘You have failed,’ Albus said gravely, as though Severus had any need for a reminder. ‘It is a natural consequence of trying. And may I say that you have not failed entirely. You have assured that Harry does not return to live with a family who treat him poorly. He is spending his summer with his friends instead, flying his broom, playing, eating Molly’s hearty cooking. And when he eventually returns to Hogwarts, he will do so knowing he has a powerful ally in his corner.’

‘I have not achieved what I set out to achieve. If that is not textbook failure, I can’t think what is.’ Severus hand tightened on the cup. It nearly slipped free of his grasp, a few drops striking bursts of burn into his lap. ‘Anything else gained is at best incidental.’

‘But it is something, isn’t it?’

He had nothing to say to that.

This was a burying of the hatchet, he realised instead. He wasn’t sure he was ready for it.

They sipped their teas for a while. Severus shifted on the cushions, hyper-aware he’d dragged the sofa in from the attic, that the cushions were clean but tired. He imagined Harry sitting here, reading or working on his summer essays, or just bored and wanting to be underfoot—the sofa should have been larger, so he could stretch his legs out properly.

This was much like being haunted, he thought. He disliked it intensely.

Once Albus had finished his tea, he rose. He watched Severus as if he were considering something, the silence an awkward stretch of tension between them.

‘We both of us could have handled this better,’ he said at last. ‘And so, we have both failed. We shall have to work on that, shan’t we?’

It was perhaps rude to stay seated. Severus stood up, then nodded, a swell of visceral hope in his chest.

‘I should leave you to enjoy your rest. I must admit that you’ve managed to surprise me this summer, Severus. I hope it does not offend you if I say I find myself feeling quite proud of you.’

It did not offend him. It did something else to him, too big to name.

After, Severus brewed more tea, and sketched mindlessly, and tried reading, but soon found he had too much nervous energy in him for either. He cleaned up the kitchen instead, then the study. He’d need to buy a new sofa: this one could not be saved. He had nothing much to do this afternoon, he could easily fit in a shopping trip. Perhaps he’d get fresh paint for the walls, too, something warmer: a deep auburn, maybe, or a dark green.

He’d dressed to go out, but sat first, knowing this was a thing he’d procrastinate on otherwise, and drafted a short letter to Lupin. Matters were too fresh, interactions too strained, to risk getting Harry that delayed birthday present and hope for a positive reaction; he feared it would be a step over the invisible line. But he could send him the promised photographs instead. Surely, the boy couldn’t misconstrue that as offense.

A natural consequence of trying, he thought. It wasn’t a surprise, then, that he’d failed: he had never been good at agency. Perhaps it was like growing a new muscle.

But this, what he was only now realising he was going to do next—the future an uncertain, shimmering thing but the choice now sharp and immediate—this was a thing he _could_ do, a thing Severus Snape was already exceedingly good at.

Now that he knows what he wants, he is never letting go.

**THE END.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is it.
> 
> It's been an enormous joy to share this story with you. Thank you to all those who've commented, followed, bookmarked, or left kudos on this story. It's been snowing heavily for almost a week where I am, and you have all been my mug of hot chocolate.
> 
> I am currently working on a longer fic for another fandom and it's been slow-going; since I'm unlikely to write much of anything else until that's done, it might be a while before I dive back into the Severitus pool - but I'd like to! If any of you happen to be _Hannibal_ fans, I hope you'll drop by when my next story is published. As for everyone else, I'd love to hear what sort of story you'd like to see from me next! Would that be a sequel to _Time,_ or is there a trope or setting you don't see a lot in Harry & Snape fics that you'd like me to explore? Feel free to hit me up here or on tumblr; I make no promises to follow through on any prompts, but it'll be fun to hear from you!
> 
> So long,  
> gzdacz

**Author's Note:**

>  _Time Left Today_ updates Wednesdays and Saturdays.
> 
> Come say hi on tumblr at [gzdacz-writes-fic.](https://gzdacz-writes-fic.tumblr.com/)


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